


Romancing the Pearl

by MorganeUK



Series: Rom-com adaptations... [8]
Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: AU Romcom, Adventure & Romance, Alternate Universe - Romancing the Stone (1984) Fusion, BAMF Anthea (Sherlock), BAMF John, BAMF Sherlock Holmes, Developing Sherlock Holmes/John Watson, Doctor John Watson, Drunk John Watson, Great Hiatus, M/M, PTSD John, South America, Writer John Watson
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-11-21
Updated: 2020-03-01
Packaged: 2021-02-25 22:33:51
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 13
Words: 24,685
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21513088
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MorganeUK/pseuds/MorganeUK
Summary: Doctor John Watson has a secret… He is a well-known author of detectives’ stories. After the war, it was his way of coping with his relentless nightmares.  Months and years passed, the memory of his life as a soldier fading away, erased by the tranquillity of a life separated between his job at the surgery and evening at his computer.Away from any action, away from any strong emotion. Until one day, his world collides with a dead man.** Each story in that series is independent and not-related at all **
Relationships: Harry Watson & John Watson, Sherlock Holmes/John Watson
Series: Rom-com adaptations... [8]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1083195
Comments: 110
Kudos: 96





	1. The end of a fictional adventure and the start of a real one.

**Author's Note:**

> Beta read by the wonderful Notjustmom!
> 
> I am not the owner or curator or fake wife of Sherlock, John, etc

> _The private detective stopped to look at the vicious serial killer, “and to think that I was nearly afraid of you! You are pathetic!” It was the end of a lengthy game of cat and mouse, but finally the last kidnapped girl was safe._
> 
> _The man screamed as he was pulled away by the cop, “you have nothing against me! I am not the killer!”_
> 
> _Looking at the fighting bastard as his men pushed him in the car, the chief sighed. “Hope you’ve got something against him, Tanner, because I certainly don’t understand what’s going on!”_
> 
> _The private detective, unable to resist a touch of dramatic, laughed as he knocked on the top of the car. “Bring him to the Yard, I am going to explain everything…” Turning over, he winked at a young recruit before going back to his flat for a good whisky._
> 
> _The void of his life disappeared for a while from the satisfaction of having done something right._
> 
> _For once._
> 
> _\- The End -_

_Yep, that’s done._ Satisfied and nodding to himself, John closed his laptop and looked around him for a little treat to celebrate. But the flat was bare of good chocolate, bearable alcohol or tolerable tea. _I need to go to the shops._

He sighed deeply, happy that his novel was over. It was probably going to do great, as usual, but it was getting... kind of boring. His free time nearly one hundred per cent dedicated to writing, it was getting harder and harder to find something exhilarating to write about. The few non-earth-shaking dates he went on did nothing to rock his world. _Maybe I can switch to medical drama instead? I am a doctor after all._

Getting up, he cracked his neck, thinking for the umpteenth time that he wasn’t a young man anymore. _I shouldn’t stay at my desk for hours without moving a bit._ Looking at the time instinctively, he realized that it was nearly time for the meeting with his editor. _Fuck,_ _I’ve got just enough time for a quick shower… I’ll go to the shops on my way back._

Tribute to his military background, he was locking his door fifteen minutes later. Rushing down the stairs, one of his meddling neighbours stopped him. _No,_ he sighed silently, _not today!_

“Doctor Watson! How are you!” the old lady asked with a mischievous grin.

“Good, good, Ms Maxwell, but I am – “

“Always going somewhere, I know…” She paused, patting John’s arm. “You know, you should find a sweet young girl! My niece is –“

“Certainly perfect, Ms Maxwell, but I am not looking for anyone and –“

“Yes, yes, but my Ethel is really wonderful, she loves children and –“

“I’m sorry, but I have to go –“

“Oh, young man are all the same, always running. Always. One day you are going to be old like me.” She sighed. “And die, all alone.”

Feeling a bit bad, he tried to cheer her up, “you are in perfect shape, Ms Maxwell, you are going to outlive all of us!”

“You are sure that you don’t want to talk to my sister’s daughter?” She replied, full of hope.

“No, sorry, but now I really have to go!” He was about to go down the stairs when she stopped him again.

“Oh, I’ve got something for you, doctor, the delivery man gave it to me yesterday.” She started shaking her big bag, looking for the small envelope as John discreetly rolled his eyes. “Ah! Got it!” She extended her hand and gave the small white envelope to her neighbour.

“Thank you, got to go now I am really late!” Shoving it in his coat pocket he finally hurried out of the building.

“John!” Stamford called from the bar. “How are you!” Quickly waving for the barman, he asked for another whisky for his protégé. “We need to celebrate! The second instalment of _The Dark Detective_ just reached the top of the Mystery list!”

Smiling, the doctor sat in a stool next to his friend, now editor. It was still weird for him to have a business relationship with his university mate, Mike… but he accepted the drink with a good spirit and lifted his glass at the glory of his hero success. Not really listening to Stamford babbling about book clubs and paperback re-editions, the familiar feeling of being a fraud seized his mind. _To think that so many writers are waiting for a breakthrough without hope, really talented people… When I… I simply got the chance to know the right person._ When he started to write a blog at his therapist’s insistence, he never thought that one day he would become a professional writer. Not wanting to write about the war, it was not something he liked to think about, he started to write short stories full of spies and detectives before setting on a taciturn hero, intelligent but full of himself, who always solved the case and got the girl. Keeping them to his blog, instead of websites dedicated to auto-publishing, he left his little nuggets of nonsense available to anyone to see without advertising anything. But here he was, two novels later and on top of the bestselling list. _To think that all this happened because I took a walk that day and stumbled upon Mike Stamford in that damn park!_

“You are lost in your mind, John,” Stamford teased, “thinking about a lady?” The wink that followed was one of the worst attempts of a wink in the bar’s lengthy history.

“Can’t believe you’re still unable to wink, Mike. God, you are terrible!”

“Yeah, I know. But seriously mate, do you have any ladies on your mind? Or gents, I don’t mind.”

John was suddenly serious. “There is someone out there for me… I know. But I haven’t found them.” 

Winking a bit more effectively, the other man shook his head, “you need to go out to find someone, you are not going to just fall in the arms of a perfect partner!” Turning around, he spotted an attractive thirty-something, “go talk to her, she looks nice!”

“Mike…” his friend chided, a bit tired of the way everyone always tried to match him with someone.

“I just want you to be happy!”

“I am a famous writer,” John joked, trying to put the spotlight away from him, “I am happy.”

“You are a famous ANONYMOUS writer,” Mike stated, seriously, “does anyone know that you write? That you are the man behind John Baker?”

“No, and it’s better that way. When I am at work, I am a doctor. That’s all. Too many pitfalls come with fame.”

Shaking his head at the lost opportunity, Mike protested, “you know, every day I refuse interviews from major channels and -”

“Only magazines or websites and only in writing. That was my deal and I’m still holding you to it. And I am not talking about being a doctor, I don’t want people to add one and one and find me.”

“It’s true that knowing that you are an ex-soldier and a doctor would be a dead giveaway…”

“This is why it’s going to remain as we are right now…” Getting a USB drive from the back pocket of his trousers, he placed it in front of his old friend. “Are you interested in a third tome?”

“Oh my God! WAITER! Another round!”

A few hours later, he seriously doesn’t remember that much now, John tried to walk up the stairs to his floor without killing himself. _These evil, evil, evil stairs. My next building is going to have a lift… I really need to move to somewhere better; I am rich now. First floor, second floor, AH! third floor._ Holding the wall, he was able to reach his door without swaying too much. _Finally!_ Getting out his keys, he put a hand on the doorknob when – to his surprise – the door opened by itself. Suddenly sober, he frowned. _What the Hell!_ _I always lock the door!_ Entering the flat cautiously, he groaned at the sight in front of him.

His neat flat was in shambles! Every drawer empty on the floor, his kitchen floor full of broken dishes, his books in disarray! The flat had been ransacked as if someone was looking for something! _I don’t understand, I have nothing of value._ Rushing to his bedroom as fast as he could, he opened his wardrobe and opened a panel to reveal a secret compartment. Finally catching his breath, he checked that his military medals, dog tags as well as his sidearm were still there. _Thank God, they haven’t found this!_

He was about to call the police when his phone rang.

“Hello?”

“John Watson?” a man with a foreign accent asked.

“… yes.”

“I have someone who wants to talk to you.”

The sound of someone mumbling angrily replaced the static and echoes on the line. “John?”

“Harry? Is this you?” It was the first contact he had with his sister in weeks, “where are you?”

“Johnny, listen to me. You need to do something for me, okay, -“

“Of course, what’s happening? What do you -”

“Have you received something in the mail from South America?” She interrupted nervously.

Feeling for the envelope in his coat pocket, he squinted his eyes to read the address, “yes, got something in the mail from Colombia.”

“Yes, that’s it! You need to bring it to me!”

“What? I can send it by FedEx, it will be quicker and –“

“No! You need to bring it to me –“ the noise of someone taking the phone stopped his sister’s supplication.

“Better listen to your sister, Doctor Watson, bring the envelope to the Palace Casa in Cartagena and don’t talk to the police.” The ominous voice said, chuckling, “if you love your sister of course.”

A second later, the line cut off, leaving a shaken John holding the phone. _Harry, what have you done!_


	2. Destination Colombia

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John, not listening to Mike, is flying to Colombia.

“You are crazy!” Mike was following John all around his flat as the man quickly put together a small duffle bag. “You can’t go to South America just like that!”

“Of course I can.”  _ Ah! My passport!  _ “ She’s my sister and she needs my help.”

“You know her… she’s always a bit dramatic.” Without thinking Mike was returning the books to the shelves, “she’s probably not truly in danger.”

“I know her voice, she was panicking, truly.” He was about to close his bag when he suddenly decided to put a small first aid kit in it.

“Why is she in South America anyway?”

“Clara was there to defend a young British citizen falsely accused of dealing drugs, she went with her to write a paper about women’s lives in the favelas.” Frowning as he tried to remember the details he received in the last email she sent, he summarized, “the trial wasn’t going well, the cartel who used the poor student unknowingly as a drug mule are really keen to use him as a scapegoat. I think she may be in trouble as well…”

Still trying to convince his friend, Mike suggested a last resort, “call the police then!”

“They told me that I shouldn’t do that if I want to see her again! Anyway, I don’t think London’s police are willing or equipped to do something in Colombia…”

“Have a bit of faith in them! They are not as stupid as you wrote them in your novel,” Stamford objected, knowing that it was a lost cause.  _ He’s going to get himself killed! _

“We have proof that they are morons, Holmes’ suicide?! It was all bollocks every single one of those accusations was false.”

“Not again about that dead man! You are obsessed, you know that his exploits are probably fifty percent made-up! You already based your hero off of him, don’t you think it’s starting to -“

“My detective can’t be like him as we don’t even know what he looked like! Admit that it’s weird how we can’t access any picture with Holmes in it, it’s as if the government was hiding –“ He stopped as Mike rolled his eyes impatiently, “Anyway, I haven’t the time to discuss it right now! My flight is in a few hours.” He was ready to go, his duffel bag closed, passport and phone in hand. “Could you please explain to that school journal that I won’t be able to reply to the questions they sent me? I don’t want them to think that I am an asshole.”

“I will… But, John, for the last time… are you sure?” Knowing that he wasn’t playing fair, he added gently, “because it looks dangerous, you know… and that sometimes, it’s…, you... you aren’t yourself?”

The doctor’s jaw tightened at the insinuation. “I may not be a soldier anymore, but I am still her brother –“

“I know, gosh, sorry mate… I didn’t –“

“I have to go. Goodbye Mike.” Without another word, he walked to the door, waited for his friend to walk out of his flat and locked the door before rushing to his cab.

After the first leg of his trip where he mostly slept, a direct flight to JFK airport which luckily was in first class, the rest was nothing short from horrible.  _ Of course _ . The overflowing flight from New York to Miami, the discussion with the American customs – even if in fact he was remaining in the international zone until he flew out of the USA – then, the redirection of his flight from Cartagena to Monteria. Chuckling silently at the idea that nothing is ever simple with Harry, even her rescue, he tried once more to get through on her cell phone as soon as he was out of the plane. Nothing new, the voicemail was full.

_ Monteria, it shouldn’t be that bad, sounds like the name of a drink with a frilly umbrella!  _ Bag in hand, he swiftly walked out of the airport, looking for the bus for Cartagena that was supposed to be waiting for them.  _ Ah! Here we go. It’s not that difficult, only a slight delay.  _

As soon as he was near the bus, he suddenly became doubtful.  _ This doesn’t look like a charter bus…  _ The bus was already nearly full of local people, babies, a few animals, fruits and all supplies someone may need on a long trip. A flashback to civilians’ buses in Afghanistan suddenly shifted him from his axis, the joyful crowd replaced by mourning, veiled mothers and orphaned young children. Unable to control his thoughts, his heart started beating frantically at the idea that such buses are nothing but death traps.  _ Easily targeted, easily – _

“¿Es este el autobús a Cartagena? ”

The doctor turned at the melodious voice, his mind back to the heated public place in Montaria. Looking at the cute blonde woman, he asked haggardly, “what?”

“Oh! You spoke English… Great! My Spanish is not going really farther than that!” Her English was perfect, despite the unspecific accent, “is this the bus for Cartagena?”

“Yes, yes,” he pointed to the board on top of the bus, “it looks like it is. Where you on the flight that was supposed to go to Cartagena?”

“Yes,” she pouted playfully, “but it looks that chance is on my side now!” Laughing, she climbed onto the rickety bus motioning John to follow her. Once they found places, nearby even if they weren’t on the same bench, she extended her hand. “Hi, my name is Mary!”

Thinking that life can be unexpectedly bright sometimes and that the five-hour drive was suddenly not such a bad thing, the doctor smiled. “John.”

After they talked a bit about their life, in which he discovered that she was a nurse so it was a nice surprise, he dozed, lulled to sleep by the shaking of the bus and the effects of jetlag.

He was in the middle of a dream, a nice one, dominated by a perky little blonde when the bus suddenly stopped. Opening his eyes to the chaos surrounding him, he first checked for Mary. She was all right, helping an old woman to gather the oranges that fell from her basket while looking at him in concern.  _ What’s going on _ , looking at his watch, he realized that he slept for seven hours!  _ Why are we in the middle of nowhere, we should have reached Cartagena hours ago!  _ As the other passengers started to get out of the bus, he followed to know what was going on.

A major landslide was blocking the road.  _ Just my luck! But first of all, where are we?  _ Everyone was all right, except for a good fright, so John stepped next to the driver.

Trying to remember what Mary said earlier he asked in horrible Spanish, “¿esta el bús a Cartagena? ”

“Cartagena?”, the driver laughed, “no, no, no Cartagena. Voy a San Juan de Pasto.”  He pointed the panel in front of his bus where it was written: “San Juan de Pasto” instead of the “Cartagena” that was there before.

“Fuck!” Turning around, he realized that people were simply leaving the bus and called out to Mary. “Where are they going? Certainly another bus or something is going to –“

“Oh yes, this is a really popular route. It happens all the time.” She smiled, sitting on a nearby rock, “I am not moving from here.”

“Okay, right, good, good.”  _ Oh my God, the envelope! _ Rushing to his seat, he took up his duffel bag and sat near Mary his keeping his bag sling on his back. They stayed there, watching the road where the others were slowly disappearing. _ I hope I made the right decision… And why aren’t we in Cartagena? _ He remained in his thoughts, thinking about the implications of his delay for his poor sister and mentally kicking himself for his lack of adventurous spirit.  _ I was a soldier God Damn It! How can I take the wrong bus for over six hours without realizing it! How could I stay here and wait to be rescued while civilians walk back to the next village! Even Ella would laugh… I think it’s a new low… At least, nothing worse can happen. This, this is horrible and poor Harry. _

His self-flagellation session was brought to an abrupt end by a cold voice, “give me the envelope Doctor Watson.”

Lifting his head, John saw the nuzzle of a gun directed on him. A gun in the hand of an arm attached to the small and comforting body of Mary.  _ What. WHAT! _

“I said, give me the envelope Doctor Watson.”

Some part of his instinct finally kicked in, John faked a smile as if it was a joke, “what are you talking about Mary? Stop playing, a gun is not a toy!” But his strategy was cut short when the voice of a man resonated in the enclosed space.

“Oye, ¿qué está pasando? ¿Quién detuvo ese autobús en medio de la barra?” Keeping her gun towards John, the woman turned in direction of the voice that was getting nearer. “¡Qué lugar de mierda! Nada funciona!” The tall man stopped his progression when he realized the position of the two persons near the bus, smirked and asked, “¿estoy interrumpiendo algo?” (See note)

Mary, at the sight of the other stranger, shouted, “no dudaré en matarte si te acercas!”

“Oh, that’s interesting…” the tall man replied in English, “your Spanish is quite good but with a hint of… Manchester?”

“WHO ARE YOU! I TOLD YOU I AM GOING TO KILL YOU IF YOU MAKE ONE MORE STEP!”

John, taking the opportunity to finally do something, pushed the flustered woman to the ground before running in the direction of the man’s car. “Come on! We need to leave!”

“What? I am not taking you!” Walking back to his jeep as if the matter was closed, John’s accidental saviour was about to turn the key when Mary started to shoot at them.

Without asking permission, the doctor jumped in the jeep and screamed, “gooooooooooo!”

Annoyed, the driver swiftly turned the old car around and pressed on the gas. But it wasn’t fast enough to avoid the gunshots that found the tires. Unable to keep control of his vehicle, the open jeep rolled over and slid until it was blocked by a tree at the edge of the road. Both protected by the dashboard, the men quickly leapt out of the car as Mary continued to shoot with what appeared to be an impressive reserve of ammunition!

Not looking behind to check if John was near him, the Jeep owner was going down an old footpath, slipping on the muddy soil as the engine exploded.

“Stop! Wait please!” The doctor cried as he followed the man in the jungle-like dark forest.

“What do you want? Because of you I am on foot and someone is trying to kill me WITHOUT A GOOD REASON!”

“Do they usually have a good reason?” John asked without being able to stop himself.

“This is what you –“ pushing away his light brown curls from his face, he sighed before suddenly shoving John down into a ditch. Falling on top of him, he pressed a finger on his lips and mouthed silently “she’s nearby.”

Remaining silent as similar situation rushed into his mind, John concentrated on the man that was over him. Not thinking of the feeling of the soil on the back of his head, or about the pressure of branches and roots on his back, or thinking about the madwoman looking for them with a loaded gun. _I must think about something else._ _A man, a warm man, a lithe but well-built beautiful man over my body… That’s not better finally._ His soon to be inconvenient line of thoughts was fortuitously interrupted.

“Good, your girlfriend ran the other way.”

Pushing the man away, John protested, “she’s not my girlfriend!”

“Oh, an ex-girlfriend then…” He chuckled, “what have you done?

“Nothing, I don’t know the crazy woman! I just met her on the bus!” Muttering as he attempted to brush off the back of his trousers, he grumbled, “what are your relationships like with women if the first idea one leaps to when one tried to kill someone is that she’s an angry girlfriend!”

Not paying attention at John expectant gaze, he tried to find the way for a secure spot. “I don’t like being exposed like this, we should find a safe place to stay put for the night a few kilometres in that direction.”

“We are in the middle of the jungle; the night is coming; a crazy woman wants to kill us!” John summed up  sarcasticall y, “it can really be worse than that!”

“Never underestimate the playfulness of the universe,” Sherlock murmured, shaking his head. (Of course, it’s Sherlock!)

And the heavy rain started. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock said: “Hey, what’s happening? Who left a bus in the middle of the road?” Then, “What a shit place, nothing work!” And, after he saw John and Mary, “Am I interrupting something?”
> 
> (It’s only Google Translate, if it’s not right let me know!)


	3. Into the jungle

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock’s thoughts on his new 'friend' and... a night in the jungle.

Sherlock was rushing down the path as the night was falling, looking for a place where they could be sheltered from the heavy rain and the woman who was trying with conviction to kill them.  _ Or kill that man and me only because I was at the wrong place at the wrong time! Being on my own for weeks in South America, secretly finding information about Moriarty’s associates, only to get mixed up with a story that I have nothing to do with!  _ Keeping for later the evaluation of why he decided spontaneously to trust the blond man, he discreetly checked if he was still behind him and noted that he was favouring one arm over the other one when he pushed branches away from his face.  _ An old wound, probably from his time in the army,  _ his mind supplied automatically.  _ Of course, the army.  _ Sherlock chided himself, annoyed that he didn’t see it right away.  _ His short hair, his authoritative voice when his life was actually in danger, the way he holds himself. But something is wrong, he actually flinched the first few times she fired... PTSD maybe?  _ Lost in his thoughts, he was running on instinct knowing that an abandoned farmhouse used by poachers and smugglers in the high season was nearby, he suddenly lost his footing and slides down the abrupt pathway without being able to grab onto something.  _ Fuck, I knew that that man was trouble! _

John was a few meters behind when his companion unexpectedly disappeared in front of him.  _ What? Where is he?  _ He was about to scream his name when he realized that he didn’t know it. “Hey! You! Where are you?” Walking slowly in case of a trap or a sudden opening in the ground, he tried to locate the other man muttering. “Don’t let me alone in the bloody jungle!” Thankfully, a glimpse of light coming from a cell phone showed the bottom of a deep trench in front of him. Looking down, he asked, “what happened? Are you hurt?”

“I decided that it was the perfect time for a lie-down,” was the only reply he received in a sarcastic tone that nobody in such a position was entitled to have.

“Don’t be cocky! Are you hurt? I’m a doctor, I can help you.”

“Come down carefully, I can’t really move.”

Worried by the clear signs of pain in the man’s voice, John prayed to all the known deities to keep his bad leg firm and as carefully as possible climbed down until he reached the bottom. The tall git was holding his left leg, trying to stop the blood from pouring out from a bad cut. “Shit, what happened?” He removed his bag that was still secured on his back to get out a clean pair of socks, missing Sherlock’s spectacular rolling of his eyes. “It’s not that much, I know, I can’t do a lot right now.” Tying both socks together, he swiftly covered the gash as tightly as possible. “I will need light and clean water to wash this.” Offering him his hand, he helped his new patient. “So, where is that little paradise of yours?”

“The house I was looking for is quite close.” Huffing from pain, Sherlock pointed in the right direction and, with the support of the doctor, they walked the remaining kilometre.

It wasn’t a great hotel, and certainly not the Palace Casa in Cartagena, but John was satisfied with the dryness and somewhat cleanliness of the place.  _ Okay, first thing first, I need to check that injury.  _ Surveying the room quickly, he saw that a bed was pushed in a corner and guided his patient to its edge. Feeling suddenly in control, he checked the old wood-burning stove and nodded to himself in satisfaction when he found matched and dry logs and kindling.  _ Good, at least we won’t freeze and I’m going to be able to boil some water to clean the wound of my mystery man.  _ “By the way, what’s your name?”

“Sigerson,” Sherlock said, after a silence, curiously reluctant to use his alias.

_ Okay… clearly a false name.  _ “Name or surname?” He joked, knowing that nobody calls his children Sigerson!

“ _ William _ Sigerson.”

John, who was now closing back the stove door to give a chance to his small fire, walked to the makeshift kitchen to look for a basin or a pot. “Nice to meet you, William, my name is John. John Watson.” The water line was dead but with the deluge that was still going on it wasn’t really a problem.  _ Probably cleaner anyway _ . Using a few pots, he rapidly collected enough water and placed it all on the stove in one pot to boil. He felt more than saw William’s eyes on him, following his every move. His bag on the kitchen table, he took out his little medical kit without showing how flustered he was by his adventure and by the beautiful man in the room.  _ He’s not a man, he’s a patient. And Harry is in trouble. It’s not the time for… for… for cavorting! _ Clearing his voice, he announced, “as I said earlier, I’m a doctor. I’ve got everything we need I think, needle, thread, antibiotic... Lie down and remove your trousers.”

“Your bedside manners need work,  _ doctor _ .” Sherlock shrugged as John pulled a chair near the small bed.

“Ha. Ha. Very funny. I don’t think you have other clothes, so if you don’t want me to cut your khakis, better to take them off.”

Disgruntled, the detective slowly removed his trousers to give access to the doctor, knowing that even if it wasn’t hurting that much now it needed to be cleaned and sutured or he’s going to catch something and pay for it later. “Go ahead, do it.”

After a first wash-up, John frowned as he examined the wound. “Ishhh, this look deeper than I thought… I have nothing really against serious pain, only a mild topical cream.” Getting up, he walked to the kitchen cabinet and started opening the doors one by one until he gave a little satisfactory exclamation at the sight of a small reserve of alcohol. Walking back to the bed, he opened a half-empty bottle of tequila. “It’s not the best solution, but in dire situations…” He gave the bottle to his patient and muttered, “go on, take a few good sips.”

With a disgusted look, he pushed the tequila back in John’s hand. “You are kidding, certainly.”

“No, I’m not… it’s going to hurt like Hell when I deep clean and suture the muscle. Come on, it says,” he read the label with difficulty, faking horribly the accent, “El mejor tequila de Sudamérica. Primera calidad!” Succumbing at last to the resolution in the doctor’s eyes, as well as the now throbbing pain, Sherlock drank a few swallows. “Good, thank you. Stay still, I’m going to start cleaning the surface before going deeper.”

Not moving, Sherlock's eyes stayed focused on John’s hands, analysing his every move and admired the high quality of his work as well as his attention towards his task _. Even if one patient is only a dubious man in the middle of the Columbian forest, _ he snorted silently. He was slowly dozing off, the running, the pain, the difficult last kilometres as well as the tequila taking their toll on his usual personal quest against sleep and the risk of his current situation. Trying to stay awake, he finally asked the question that was standing between them since he interrupted the attack. “Seriously, why did she try to kill you? I think we lost her, but she was very persistent.” He had heard her when she asked for an envelope, but he always preferred to get many versions of a story, “and what are you doing on that bus, far away from any tourist town?”

“Who said I was a tourist?” John protested as he knotted his last stitched, “maybe I work for an NGO!”

Chuckling, Sherlock put his khakis back on, shaking his head. “Give me a break, you are not.”  _ Not here anyway. _

“Why not?” Exasperated, he went outside to get more water as he felt dirty and needed a good clean-up himself.  _ And food would be nice.  _ He was lost in his mind when the man he knew as William started talking.

“You are a good doctor; I must admit it.” Deducing the man, the detective smirked, “but you used to be a soldier. It turned sour at the end with a bad injury … shoulder? Yes, shoulder. And nothing serious, probably psychosomatic, to your leg.” His voice uncustomarily soft, he continued, “psychosomatic because the whole ordeal was an extremely traumatic experience… people died, you made it by some miracle. To lose men when you are a doctor, in charge of a group of men, must be horrible.”  _ Sentiment, it was easier before. I am not used to having so many, this is really where Moriarty hurt me the most… _

“Don’t say things… you know nothing about the real me.” After a moment, he challenged. “How do you know that I was in the army?”

“I looked at you, you were distracted at a certain moment but became hyper focussed when she started to shoot at us. Question of habit, a civilian even if he’s running for his life, wouldn’t be able to just forget about it and run. But… it wasn’t the case first. You looked like a deer in a headlight. So soldier but with a certain level of PTSD.”

Frustrated by the impudence of the man, John argued, “a woman that I thought was friendly was trying to kill me, sorry if I didn’t rise to the occasion enough to meet your high standards.”

“It’s okay,” Sherlock deadpanned, “most people don’t.” He paused, watching as John searches for food, “but you’ve got something special.”

John stopped gathering the few tins still in the small pantry, doubtful that someone could find something special in him, “how?”

“You left London in a hurry to help someone, protecting with your life the key to save his life.”

Without thinking, he repeated, “his life?”

“Yes, Harry Watson, your brother, I supposed? Don’t think that someone would go to such a length for a cousin.”

Furious, the doctor turned to look at the tall man. He was holding Harry’s envelope in his hands, analyzing it as far as it was possible in the dimmed room. “What are you doing! It’s private, you don’t have the right to open my bag!”

“Oooops, sorry I was bored and curious which is never a good thing.”

Taking the envelope from the (beautiful) hands, he placed it back in his bag. “Sit down, I’m going to warm up some beans. I am hungry and you are far too thin, you need to eat.”

“And after?” 

“Nothing we can do before the morning and I really had a horrible day. I need a drink.” He laughed derisively, “so... tequila and rum. Care to join me?” 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm so late from my usual 'one chapter per week rule', job is kind of hellish nowadays. Going to relax tomorrow and work on chapter 4!


	4. A cozy evening

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A little talk around a shooter or two…

Sherlock had been looking at the plate of baked beans as if it were a personal offence.  _ I am not hungry, especially for that. _

“Come on man, eat, it’s not a gastronomic meal but it’s hearty. We are going to walk a lot tomorrow… I guess.” _The fuck I know where we are._ _I hope Harry is okay._ The doctor stopped talking, looking at his bag without even realizing it. _Can’t believe I messed up that big without being able to contact them_ \- “Oh! Give me your phone!”

“My phone,” the detective frowned, thinking about his spy grade boost up phone able to get range even in the middle of the jungle “Why?”

“Mine is dead and I need to call… somewhere, it’s important.”  _ I don’t know the name of the man, but at least I can leave a message at the hotel! _ “Could you please check to see if yours is working… it’s a matter of life or death.”

“Is this about Harry?” The detective asked, curious, before adding coldly as John remained silent, “you nearly got me killed and I lost my mode of transportation, the least you can do is entertain me and tell me why.”

After a moment, the doctor left the table to get the letter, knowing that it was his only choice. He was tempted to invent a story, he was an author after all, but for some strange reason, he was inclined to trust the lanky man. Playing with the letter, shifting it from one hand to another, he considered the events of the last hours.  _ He did actually save my life after all. _ His cheeks suddenly flushed in shame as he remembered what happened.  _ It’s true that I didn’t fight, I ran like a coward. I should have stopped her and get answers on why she wanted Harry’s document. God, I am so completely useless. _

“Stop beating yourself up about how it went this afternoon,” Sherlock interrupted a bit annoyed by the self-deprecating attitude, John’s thoughts showing clearly on his face and demeanour, “that woman was clearly a professional and you used to be a soldier, but you have changed since your last deployment. Furthermore, she always looked at you as a target, the proof was the fact that she knew about the envelope, in the first place, and you weren’t in a fighting state of mind.”

Not wanting to listen, John shook his head, mollified by the drop in his adrenaline level now that they were safe and his companion’s wound was taken care of. “I know the… the reason why I am in Columbia; I shouldn’t have let my guard down. I let my weaknesses get the better of me. I… I failed my sister.”

“Your sister?”

_ I’ve said too much already! _ But unable to stop himself, he murmured, “yes, Harry… She’s my sister. I let her down. Harry and her wife.”

_ A woman. Always something.  _ Trying to be diplomatic regarding the man’s obvious PTSD, he replied with a new softer tone.  _ “ _ It’s okay, we all deal with… with hardship in our own ways.”

Looking at the confident man in front of him, John chuckled before muttering irritably, “as if you ever had a day of hardship in your life!”

Shutting down and closing the conversation suddenly, Sherlock opened his phone and accessed a ‘vanilla’ version of the device before he instructed the doctor coldly. “You can call whomever you want, just be brief.” He placed the phone on the table and walked to the door. “I’m going for a cigarette; you’ve got five minutes.”

Less than four minutes later, after he replaced the letter at the bottom of his bag, John stepped outside to give the phone back to its owner. He was standing under a wood awning, smoking silently while looking into the darkness of the jungle. The light coming from the few lamps lighted inside wasn’t enough to chase the night from the small cottage. The feeling of being surrounded by ferocious animals or even harmful enemies was overwhelming. Taking comfort in the idea that he wasn’t all alone and lost, John suddenly felt guilty for the way he pushed him away when he was trying to help him.  _ And it certainly seemed that it was not something he did naturally. For some reason, though, he was making an effort in his case.  _ Resisting the urge to comment about the smoking, the doctor extended his hand to give him the phone. “Thank you, I was able to get them a message to let them know that I was delayed.” He jumped at the cry of an animal being attacked by another one. “Should we be outside? The animals but also… her.”

“Don’t worry, she’s not an immediate threat.” Taking his phone without making eye contact, he crushed his cigarette on a wooden post before getting back in the cottage. “Come on, you promised me a drink.”

Sherlock, still not hungry but not stupid, ate a bit from his now cold plate while John goes get their drinks _. Alcohol is not my usual forte, but I know that it’s not good drinking on an empty stomach. Maybe a few drinks will make him talk.  _ He knew that the killer wasn’t around anymore, he asked for a report on the presence of another human in a 10-kilometer radius, but the reason why she attacked the doctor was still an unknown factor.  _ Without a doubt, she was a professional. A foreigner… is she an associate of the faction I am here to destroy? It’s a lot of Brits on a small road in the middle of nowhere in Colombia. The universe is rarely so lazy.  _ His musing was interrupted by the sound of clinking glasses as the doctor placed two small glasses and a few bottles of alcohol on the table.

“Don’t really know what you want,” he babbled shily, “so I brought a few…”

Frowning, the detective read the various labels. It wasn’t so bad, not top shelf by any means, but not as cheap as something left in a workers’ cottage may have been. “I think I’ll start with vodka.” Taking the bottle, he poured his first shot without paying too much obvious attention to what the blond man was going to do.

With a sigh, John grabbed the tequila and opened the bottle.

They drank without exchanging a word at first, both men chasing one shot with another until sparks from the stove break the silence. “Maybe we can go in front of the fire, it’s warmer,” John proposed, knowing that the temperature dropped drastically at this time of the year. Taking up his bottle, he rose from his chair and focussed his attention on walking as straight as possible.  _ It was a bad idea; I am still tired from the trip and the events of the day. At least,  _ he added in surprise _ , my leg didn’t fail. _

Sherlock, slightly less inebriated, followed a moment later. He winced as an acute twinge reminded him of the sutures.  _ I’ve seen worse, this is not important _ . Looking at the beautiful and strangely peaceful profile of the doctor who was stocking the stove, he sat in one of the chairs. A feeling of familiarity and comfort surrounded the small place, a remote feeling for someone who’s been chasing or chased for more than a year.  _ Chairs in front of a small fire, it looks like Baker Street… even if it’s not an open fire. I wonder how Ms Hudson is fairing, all alone in that old building.  _ He sighed and drank a bit, not liking the melancholy in his mood.  _ Get a grip, you are Sherlock Holmes!  _ ‘ _ Sherlock Holmes is dead’  _ His mind countering quickly _.  _ Pushing his melancholy away, he focussed his attention to the present.  _ I need to know if my mission and Watson’s story are linked and if I need to do something about that or just drop him at the first town that we see. _

After a few moments, he replenished his drink and asked, with an half-fake bit of a slur. “Your… your sister. Harry. Are you really close?”

“Yes and no… she’s my sister. You know how it is,” John chuckled sadly. “You, any siblings?”

“Only a brother,” Sherlock replied without masking the truth, “and no, we are not really close. Or more precisely, we are close in a way that doesn’t suit me. But I love him… enough.”

Wanting to know more, he pried, “anyone else… wife, girlfriend?”

Chuckling at the idea, Sherlock shook his head, “no, not really my area.”

“Oh,” John said as an irremediably stupid and really inopportune spur of hope appeared from nowhere. “Any… boyfriend? Which is fine of course.”  _ Fine. More than fine.  _

“Yes, I know that it’s fine…” he smiled, “but thank you for your approval, Doctor Watson.”

“I wasn’t…” John protested.

“I know, I’m kidding… no… no boyfriend.” He paused, looking for the right words, not accustomed to talking about… things. “Sentiment. Sentiment is really not my area, either.”

Turning to his left to challenge the statement, John stopped, the beauty of the man halting any coherent thought.  _ Oh my God, he's so beautiful like this. He could be a hero in one of my novels! _ The small twirling light coming from the wood-burning stove was dancing in his black hair, creating a wave of nearly auburn highlights.  _ The dark, tall, handsome, attracted to men, mysterious hero of my story _ . Looking at his eyes, he realized that “William” wore coloured lenses.  _ What is behind that muddy brown? Maybe one day I am going to see him without them, maybe one day I am going to be able to see his soul clearly. _

He was completely, utterly lost for a man who was going to be out of his life tomorrow...

“It’s good for you to want to help your sister, it’s beginning to look like she’s in some kind of trouble,” the detective continued innocuously, trying to fish for information. 

Too absorbed by the man near him to be cautious, the doctor murmured, “yeah, she’s in trouble if I don’t get the envelope to Cartagina.”  _ Shit. I am drunk. _ “Cartagana.”  _ Really drunk. _ “Cartagena.”

Realizing that John’s heated eyes were following his every more, Sherlock smiled. “Yes I understand, where in Cartagena?”

“At a hotel. Palace something… I wrote it on the envelope.”  _ I mustn’t talk about this, _ feeling guilty that his thoughts were focussed more about the seductive man instead of Harry and not trusting his actions, he pushed himself out of the comfortable chair, when he lost his balance and fell, his hand suddenly on the other man’s knee. “Sorry. Got to go to bed… M’tired… I think.” Unable to move, unable to flee, he watched as the adventurer stared at him and mumbled, “how d’you… the bed… there’s only one bed, and… and...”

Sending any caution to the wind, Sherlock leaned over and murmured in John’s ear, “I don’t mind.” 


	5. A fan

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock finally checked what is in John’s envelope…

John remained stoic, without knowing what to do.  _ ‘I don’t mind’, is he… is he flirting with me? Do I want him to flirt with me? YES! But is it the right moment? HELL NO! _ “Are you saying…” cocking his head, he paused before adding with a knowing look, “what  _ you’re _ saying.”

“Of course, I am saying what I am saying as I’m the one who said it.” Sherlock deadpanned.

“God,” the doctor winced, instantly turned off, “too much talking. Got to go to sleep.”

“Go ahead, I’m going to relieve myself and follow in an instant.”

The smaller man mumbled something that sounded like ‘mood killer’ before dropping in the bed like a dead weight.

As Sherlock estimated, he was out under five minutes.

The detective remained in his chair, looking at the sleeping form, doubting suddenly that looking at the contents of the envelope was the right thing to do.  _ Okay, it’s certainly not the right thing to do, but it’s the intelligent thing to do. I don’t know the man, I do not owe him anything.  _ Worrying about that unexpected doubt, he closed his eyes to force his thoughts away from the bed.  _ What, I would stop my inquiry into that strange affair because of a few stitches? When he’s the cause of why I received them in the first place. And because of him I’m without transportation, who knows when I will find another car in the middle of the jungle!  _ Without giving any more thought to it, he walked silently to the doctor’s bag and opened it swiftly, the sound of the opening zip abnormally loud in the otherwise silent cottage. Keeping an eye in the direction of the man he was actually trying not to think about, his hands invaded the privacy of his luggage. Touching socks, soft t-shirt, cotton briefs, a grooming necessary and the small emergency kit without acknowledging the effect on him. The intimacy of his actions conflicting with his disgust of doing so. 

When, finally, his hand touched the document he was looking for.

Closing the bag, it was easier to simply hide the envelope if John woke up, and after one last look to be sure that the doctor was still completely knocked-out, he walked to stand near the kitchen countertop where a small gas lamp was still burning.  _ Heavy-duty envelope, a local brand, the address was written in a hurry, by a woman… Harry or her wife probably. Too much postage, it wasn’t obliterated at the post-office, as if she put all the stamps on to be able to just drop it in a mailbox without a risk of its not being delivered.  _ Turning it away to watch if anything worth seeing was on the back, he registered John’s address and the fact that it was only a few minutes away from Baker Street.  _ As if it were important! _ He shrugged, irritated.  _ Nothing special, I must open it…  _ Using his pocket knife, he slowly opened it, grateful that it wasn’t the kind that is impossible to open without totally destroying the envelope.  _ We are not in an Agatha Christie novel, and I don’t have a kettle to get steam anyway! _

Finally able to get to the document, he pulled it out delicately. _All this for… that?_ At the exception of a small letter, folded with a simple 'John' written in the same hand as the address on it, the only other paper was an invoice from a Cartagena shop. _It must be important?_ But even if he analysed, looked to see if the paper was tempered with something, tried to come up with a code or something, nothing! After a quick look to be sure that the doctor was still sleeping, he unfolded the letter.

> _ Johnny, _
> 
> _ We are in trouble, the cartel Clara worked against to save that poor young man is really strong and controlled the local government. They constantly threaten Clara, threaten to kill me if Clara won’t cooperate. She is staying away from our little flat in a hotel near the courthouse and passes her time at the prison and the other half with the parents who came here to help. _
> 
> _ She told me that her client is innocent, that it’s a set-up and I believe her. It’s a sad story, he’s not 25 years old, a good student from Cambridge. He was here doing research for his PhD when he was arrested under the suspicion of smuggling drugs. He swore that it was bullshit, that he would never do that. He’s so afraid! We think that they also have threatened his parents. _
> 
> _ He told Clara that the invoice enclosed in this envelope is the key to his release. That as long as they don’t get the paper, they can’t do anything against him. I don’t understand how, but guard it for us John, one day we may need to play this card. _
> 
> _ Take care of yourself, brother, I know you are not religious but pray for us as I did for you when you were away at war. _
> 
> _ Love, _
> 
> _ Harry _

Reading it over another time, he wasn’t able to find anything. Clueless and finally truly tired, he took a snap of the letter and the invoice with his phone and went to sleep without disturbing his bedfellow.

John woke up with the feeling of being in peace and safety, a rare occurrence since his return, the tiredness of the last two days finally gone. He was slowly falling back into slumber when the sound of a flock of parrots of some sort echoed through the thin walls of the cabin. Opening his eyes at the obviously non-British sound, he remembered at once where he was from the sight of a corrugated metal roof. He was about to get up when he realized that he was pinned to the bed by the long limbs of his unfortunate companion.  _ Okay, that’s… that’s nice. A bit too nice if I am honest. My dick is a bit too snuggled between my body and his leg. Hmmm… that’s nice.  _ Pushing the idea away as soon as it popped up in his mind, he jumped out of the bed.

“God, Watson, I was sleeping –“

Running away to hide his inopportune growing erection, John rushed to the makeshift bathroom, “sorry, I just need the loo… and a shower.”

“Don’t pamper yourself too much, I want to be on our way quickly. Now that I’m up.” Sherlock mumbled as he put his hiking boots back on.  __

Thirty minutes later, after a quick breakfast composed of a handful of stale nuts (pun intended, poor John) they hit the large path near the house, hoping that it leads them to a village. Thankfully, after two hours of a painfully silent walk, they arrived at the entry of a small village. It was nearly deserted save for a few kids fooling around with a soccer ball and an old woman weaving baskets while watching the youths’ game.

“Let me talk to her,” Sherlock said as he waved to the old lady as he shouted a lively, “¡hola!”

“As if I’ve got another choice since I don’t speak a word of Spanish.”

Without acknowledging the doctor’s comment, the detective smiled congenially, “cómo está usted, señora,” as the old woman remained cautious, he continued and asked if a car was available to rent. “¿Sabes si puedo alquilar un coche en el pueblo?”

Without a word, she nodded and pointed her finger in the direction of the main road.

In hope it was the direction to a garage, Sherlock bowed, “Gracias mi buena dama.”

They were walking down the street when a group of men interrupted them.

“Fuck.” John muttered under his breath, but strong enough to be heard by the men.

“Oh! American!” One of them laughed clearly unable to make a distinction between American or British English, “our boss, he  _ loves  _ Americans.” Sadly, his tone wasn’t as welcoming as his words.

“We are only lost travelers, yesterday our car hit a tree and since then we have been walking, do you know where we could find police or –“ John interrupted, wanting to help.

“John, better to shut-up now.” Sherlock said coldly, trying to salvage the situation but it was too late, as a few of the men swiftly take out their guns.

“John, John who? And you,” one of them directed his gun in Sherlock’s direction, “who are you? What are you doing here?”

“Sigerson,” the detective lied, keeping the same alias. Wanting to get the village little gang on his side, he smiled lazily, “I’m a smuggler, doing a bit of this… and that, know anyone who’s hiring?”

John, not wanting to tell the bandits his surname, in case they were working with the cartel that took his sister, quickly added, “Baker, John Baker.”

Laughing, the men mimicked John, repeating in a thick Spanish accent, “Baker, John Baker, 007,” as John rolled his eyes at the tedious joke. He knew his alias was James Bond like, but Baker Street was a street near his place and he always liked it when he learned that Holmes used to live there.

One of them repeated but with a bit of wonder instead of mockery, “John Baker… like the author?”

Not knowing if it was a good thing, or not, John nodded warily as he eyed his companion.  _ What’s going on? _

“Our boss, he loves detectives and detective stories, come! Come!” Pushing both men in front of them, they marched under the curious eyes of the villagers as the criminals lowered their guns… a little.

Once in front of a relatively normal hacienda, they knocked until someone opened the gate. The yard was in a poor state, a few animals eating grass while men played cards, the whole feeling was one of neglect and poverty. The leader of the pack, not letting them watch their surroundings, pushed John in front of him until they arrived at a second door. After a heavy knock, the door opened ajar, just enough for to let a man through. “Señor Juan!” The man smiled, happy that his boss himself was there, “¡tengo una sorpresa para usted! John Baker! ”

Unable to see the man behind the door, Sherlock was trying to stay focussed _. A surprise, he said that he’s got a surprise for him, what’s going on? He’s not an author, he’s a doctor! _ Giving John another serious look, he was trying to figure out what he had missed when the door was finally opened, revealing a luxurious house.

“What! For real, Mister Baker… I am so –“, the small drug lord shrieked as his eyes fell on Sherlock. “It’s you!!” Hugging the man as if he were a brother he murmured with emotion “Sherlock! You rascal! I thought you were dead!”

“Yes, I am, my name is now William.”

Turning to an astonished John, Juan laughed merrily wrapping his arms around both men, “come in, come in, mi casita es tu casa!”


	6. A Soldier’s Dream

_Sherlock._ John was walking behind the man he, until a moment ago, thought was an adventurer known as William. _Oh my God, this is Sherlock bloody Holmes. It can’t be anyone else, Sherlock is not a common name and his look and attitude are perfectly suited to what I know about the man._ The detective and their host were walking a few meters in front of him. He presented himself to John as Juan before turning to Spanish to talk animatedly with the detective. _I wonder what are they talking about? Probably something in the line of how the Hell he is alive and what the Hell he’s doing in the middle of South America… and to think I thought we stumbled upon a fan of mine, so I was going to save the day! Nope, still un-useful as shit!_ His worries about the unusual situation, he wasn’t stupid and realized quickly they were in a drug operation, was turning into irritation. _I was feeling guilty that he was in trouble because of me when, in fact, being in trouble is probably his hobby!_ Forgetting his sister’s dire situation for the moment, a burst of annoyance mixed with an absolutely unrequited excitation took all the place in his mind. _And to think that I, as well as the people following his career, all mourned because of his death. Stupidly asking for a review of the case against him, trying to redeem his memory… That poor DI who nearly lost his job because of him! He must have laughed at all of them. The prick._ Without realizing it, the constant fear that had been underlying his actions since he returned from war was replaced by anger.

The fact that he was completely left out of the conversation didn’t help. At all.

Getting over the fact that Sherlock was alive as just another quirk, the South American was laughing, retelling old adventures as well as sharing news about their common acquaintances. Alas, the detective wasn’t really paying attention as he was more preoccupied with trying to estimate the consequences of John knowing who he was. _His astonished face when Juan called me ‘Sherlock’ was a given, he knows who I am and that I shouldn’t be alive. He’s English and it appeared a detective story writer, so the odds weren’t in my favour… but what now? Is he a threat? Is he going to tell the press about me? And what about that thing, that he’s a writer?_

The enthusiastic constant gibberish in the background of his mind finally stopped as his ‘friend’ halted in front of a door, switching back to English in regard to his visitor.

“Mister Baker, your room!” He opened the door to a cool and neat room as if he was the owner of a small B&B showing off the amenities. “You have everything that you need in the bathroom, towels, soap, razor.” With a wink, he walked to the end of the bathroom to open another door. “Conjoined room, because sometimes you may need something,” he winked again to John’s annoyance, “in the night.” The other bedroom was a duplicate of the first, small but kind of lush compared to the outside of the building. “My dear friend, you don’t have a bag… I have a man that is tall and thin like you. I will get you things. Okay?”

Nodding at the cunning man, the detective replied before John was able to protest. “Thank you, Juan, this is perfect. But we won’t spend the night, we need to reach our destination as soon as possible.”

“No problem, no problem, you are on a ‘case’, right? Still the same, hey?” He winked ( _sigh_ ) while nudging John in the ribs. “You walked a long way, use the shower, change the clothes, relax a bit!” He cocked his head in the direction of the double bed and winked ( _again, dear God!_ ).

Totally oblivious to the constant allusion, Sherlock frowned at the idea of putting on someone else’s clothes before he asked, “as for transportation –“

“No hay problema, rest a bit then you can both join me for a good meal - I want to know details about Mr Baker’s next novel! - and a vehicle will be ready for you.”

John turned in Sherlock’s direction as soon as the door was closed. “Care to explain?”

Without paying attention to the angry man, the detective walked back to his room and muttered, “you’re first for the shower, I need to wait for the clothes anyway,” before closing the door between them.

 _Oh for God sakes! What a jerk!_ Checking his bag for clean clothes his heart somersaulted when his hands touched Harry’s letter. _Stay focussed, Clara and Harry’s safety is the most important thing right now._ _Not a dreamy sexy bastard detective who shouldn’t even be alive!_

_An hour later…_

> The heat was nearly unbearable near the blaze, the old bus completely destroyed by the fire. Slowly, in a nearly catatonic state, John turned to look at the people trapped inside. Screaming and crying old men, women, children _…_ Shaking himself from his stupor, he tried to step near the bus door, but it was impossible to do so. Guilt and horror raised in his gut, the feeling of being useless overwhelming. _There’s nothing I can do. I’m so sorry… so sorry._ The voice of a fellow officer resonated behind him. “ _Run Watson! Ruuuuuun! It’s going to explode!”_ Unable to move, except to step back from the evident danger of the blaze, the doctor remained still as tears pooled in his eyes before falling down his face.
> 
> The impact of a bullet against his bulletproof vest that pushed him to the sandy road finally brought him back to the present moment. Fighting to get his breath back, the blow thou not fatal still hurt like a bitch, he turned on his belly and started crawling away while staying out of the range of the gunmen.
> 
> The Taliban’s automatic guns were firing without precision, trying to kill as many people as possible, soldiers and civilians alike. His protective instinct back now that he accepted that it was impossible to save the people on the bus, he helped a few soldiers with minor wounds to reach cover. Until he saw Elliot, one of his men, falling down as he was shot in the leg. Rushing to the man, he stopped the blood loss as much as possible under the circumstances. _The femoral artery, even if I put a garotte, he’s going to be dead within the next hour if I can’t get him to our field hospital! “Elliot, stay with me, okay! It’s going to be all right!”_ Using his communication device, he contacted his team for transport.
> 
> He was checking his vital signs when the blast of the exploding bus shoved him back to the ground again as the enemy released a new volley of machine gunfire. Using his body as a shield to protect the unconscious man, he nearly didn’t realize that a bullet entered under the edge of his vest, shattering his scapula until he saw the fresh blood running on his arm. _Oh. That... hurt._
> 
> John beamed at the sound of a helicopter, shooting to force a retreat from the Taliban, knowing that help was on its way. “Elliot, we are going to be okay, transport is here!” His patient head turned away from him, his cheek touching the warm sand. “Elliot, don’t do that to me man, I –“ Worried, the doctor used the hand of his unwounded arm to carefully remove his helmet and turned his face to evaluate his condition. “No, no, that’s impossible!” The captain recoiled in horror, not understanding what was going on. Instead of the pimpled face of his blond soldier, it was Holmes’ ivory skin and short black curly hair!
> 
> “Watson, wake up,” the man shouted, his luscious lips indecent in the scene of horror surrounding them.
> 
> “What… I don’t understand, WHAT ARE YOU DOING HERE?” Unexpectedly able to move, the _soldier_ in front of him placed a hand on his wounded shoulder. 
> 
> “You are dreaming, wake up John.”

Finally fully awake by the horrible sound of his own screams, John pulled away in panic. “DON’T TOUCH ME!”

Sherlock withdrew slowly, holding his hands in front of him. “You were in the middle of a nightmare, I… I didn’t know what to do… sorry…”

Avoiding the compassionate gaze, John muttered a strangled, “go away… please.”

“Yes, sorry, I’ll leave you alone for a moment. One of Juan’s men just told me that dinner is going to be in half an hour.” Without another word, the detective walked back to his room.

Alone in his room, Sherlock sat on his bed trying to shake the discomfort he felt at the view of the other man’s distress. Knowing that someone is probably ‘a bit not good’ after being at war and seeing the consequence firsthand wasn’t the same thing.

> He was trying to do something with his hair, he kept it shorter than usual but it was still curly, when he heard moaning on the other side of the door, followed by sobbing and mumbling. Without hesitation, he entered the darkened room. John was in bed, fully dressed in clean clothes, in the middle of what looked like a terrible dream. Unsure of what to do, he advanced closer to the bed. He slept well last night, _I wonder what triggered his nightmare, maybe I can ask him to talk to me about it later? But later, now he needs to stop before he thrashed himself out of bed!_ “John,” he murmured, “you need to get up you are having a nightmare.” When the doctor’s agitation didn’t diminish, he repeated, louder. “Watson, wake up!” Unaware that the dream was becoming even worse because of his presence, Sherlock placed a hand on the ex-soldier's shoulder and called once more, “you are dreaming, wake up John!” The look of horror on John’s face when he finally woke up was something that the detective didn’t see coming. 

After an absurd apology, he left the room to let John alone to deal with the aftermath of the nightmare. _Maybe I should have stayed with him? Maybe he needed something more, human? Comforting words? A… a hug?_

Sherlock was lost in his thoughts, still trying to understand what was expected from him in such a situation and how the complexity of dreams and flashbacks work when a discrete knock on the adjoining door between their rooms startled him. It was John, looking better now that he pushed the cobwebs away with a washcloth dipped in cold water.

A small crisp smile on his face, he asked, “ready for dinner?” _And after that, I am going directly to Cartagena. With or without Mister Holmes._ Knowing perfectly well that he was lying to himself, as the opportunity to get the help of the famous detective was something he couldn’t resist.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sad, I know :-( And not what you could have expected from a day with Juan! But do not worry, a dinner with a talkative drug lord, too much tequila and Little Mule are coming next!


	7. A nice meal

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It's a Little Mule!

John followed behind Sherlock, looking around uneasily.  _ The man who was in charge was friendly enough, but this is still a bunch of criminals!  _ He smiled cynically at the man’s groupie attitude right before he saw Sherlock. _ He likes my books, at least this is something… He’s not going to kill me if he wants another book.  _ They walked outside, from the small wing where the guest rooms were to the main area of the hacienda, the weather perfect and sunny.

A big table, simply planks on trestles, was being brought into the middle of the courtyard while men and women carried chairs, plates and enormous amounts of food. The whole group was chatting amicably, fooling around and singing songs. Unable to stop himself, the writer was saving everything in his mind for further use. It was a great experience for a crime novel author to be able to see the way of a gang from the inside.  _ But I don’t think that London’s criminals are eating outside while old women serve spicy food _ , he chuckled silently,  _ maybe I could ask Holmes about - _ . His thoughts stopped as his eyes narrowed on the back of the detective, his anger pooling again even if he couldn’t understand why the situation was bothering him that much.  _ His reasons were probably good, his family and close friends are surely aware that he’s still alive. I shouldn’t be bothered by that, it’s not anything to do with me.  _

Shifting his gaze toward the blue sky, John wished for a second to be there under different circumstances. _Not to get ‘holiday time’ with Holmes,_ he censored himself, ashamed, _but because that would mean that Clara and Harry are safe!_ A small inner voice murmured, _you’ve been in South America for more than 24 hours, and what have you done? Nothing! Exactly like Afghanistan, unable to save everyone under your command, the civilians who trusted you._ The exhaustion of feeling guilty all the time was gouging him. Lost in his thoughts, his guts somersaulted at a big bang coming from his left, the sound of thick wood tumbling on metal. 

Feeling the detective’s eyes on him, he stretched to his full height and continued walking, getting away from the yard’s lively animation.

__

Juan’s lieutenant, who was leading them towards the dining room, finally opened the outside door of a spacious room.

“Sher-“, the criminals’ chief stopped, laughed and waved his hand playfully as if it was all but a joke, “William!” He motioned energetically in direction of the chairs at his side. “Mister Baker! I am so eagerly waiting for your next adventure! I read, we all read them in fact!” He pointed energetically in the direction of outside where his goons were and stage-murmured playfully, “they ALL love your stories, so, you know, we read your first two and we want more.” Thrilled, he jumped out of his chair to get the books which were waiting on a console. Suddenly shy, he dropped the books in front of John. “Maybe… maybe you could write a little something? For the boys, of course!“ 

Clearing his throat, the doctor tried to imagine what was the appropriate note in the situation, as he looked at his books blankly.

Juan, unaware of John’s confusion, turned in direction of Sherlock. “Mister Baker is your friend, you probably read the books many times! Isn’t a wonderful author?” Motioning to a servant to bring drinks, he suddenly shouts, “soy estúpido!”

“Por qué?” The detective asked, not really interested in the reply.  _ I just want to get a car; I am not asking that much! _

“El detective oscuro!” Juan called happily, pointing at the books and a curiously silent doctor. “El detective!”

_ Please have mercy on me! _ He wasn’t good at Spanish, but he knew the name of his hero, especially with a Spanish translation of the novel in hand.  _ Of course, he’s going to point out that my inspiration is Holmes… _ Avoiding the detective’s questioning eyes, John quickly served himself from the food that was brought in a minute ago without anyone acknowledging the poor cook.

It was without counting on the Colombian curious and gossipy nature.

“So… you know each other for a long time!” Smiling knowingly, he opened the book and started to read languorously, translating the text back to English for John’s benefice. “ _ He was tall and with dark hair, thin but with energy. The most beautiful man I have ever seen, enough to change sides and let go of my usual blond curvy women, his partner thought silently.”  _ He laughed, teasing as he nudged the detective’s shoulder, _ “ _ ouh la la, hace calor aqui, hey, Sherlock!”

Holmes was about to tell him to just shut up, the low-key insinuation driving him crazy when a man entered the room in an obvious panic.

“Senor, senor! Alguien los busca en el pueblo.”

“What?” John asked with worry, even if the diversion was nicely timed.

“Someone is looking for us in the village,” switching to Spanish, Sherlock described the blonde woman to the sentinel, hoping that it was someone else. The man nodded, afraid of being the bearer of bad news.  _ Shit. It’s her. _ “Juan, you said you have transportation, right? We have to go!”

“Yes, yes, my Little Mule is available!”

“Your ‘Little Mule’,” the detective protested, rolling his eyes. “We need a jeep or a pick-up, not a little anything!”

Five minutes later, John and Sherlock were leaving their room when a big Ford Bronco stopped in front of them in a cloud of sand and dust. Grinning proudly, Juan motioned them to get inside. “Come on, it’s my Little Mule!”

Without further discussion, the Brits jumped in the truck, happy to finally be on their way. Rushing through a closed gate as if it was butter, Juan was having a great time until the mercenary’s jeep reached them at the outskirt of the little village.

“It’s her, go faster!”

“Oh…” Juan chuckled knowingly, having a great time, “a woman!” Stopping suddenly to avoid a few chickens, he turned on an alley. “What’s the problem, she doesn’t want to share? What have you done, bad boy?”

“NOTHING! Stop chatting, check the road and go faster!” John screamed as he tried to buckle up.

“John, Juan is helping us… maybe you can be –“ Sherlock rebuking was interrupted as Mary started to shoot at them, “he’s right, Juan, please do shut up and lose that bitch!”

“I will, I will,” suddenly, as the criminal turned abruptly without warning them, the doctor forgot the risk they were in as he was suddenly pressed against the detective in the most delicious way for a second. Not realizing John’s silent turmoil, the driver smiled as they rushed by a cute little orange house. “My mother’s house, 76 this year, a nice lady!” Swearing in Spanish as Little Mule is showered by an automatic gun, he resolutely drove down a small outback road. “This is enough!”

Sherlock, knowing the ingenuity of his old friend, wasn’t that worried.  _ If someone can save our arses, it’s him!  _ Without thinking, he pressed his hand on the doctor’s thigh to reassure him. “We are going to be okay; Juan knows this part of Colombia like the back of his hand!”

Still proud of his little village and the way his little operation helped them both, Juan continued to point out things as they distanced themselves from the jeep. “You see that river? It’s really important, it brings water to the village and –“

“You mean that river without a BRIDGE!” The detective insisted, curious about Juan’s plan.

“WHY IS HE DRIVING INTO A RIVER!” John screamed as Little Mule hurried directly to a dead-end road!

Few seconds before the truck bogged down in the riverbank, a small but solid ramp appeared to the two men amazement! Accelerating, Juan simply jumped over the river, leaving the vicious woman on the other side as the ramp disappeared. “Whouaaaaaaaaaaaaaa!”

“You are a miracle, Juan, and definitively crazier than I am!” Sherlock laughed, having fun for the first time in a long while.

John, unable to stop shaking, muttered, “you are both nuts!”

A few hours later, they arrived peacefully in a small town. “Here you go my friends, from here you will be able to rent a car.”

Jumping down from the truck first, Sherlock hugged Juan, with a promise to return for a visit as soon as possible.

“Si», the older man muttered, «tienes mucho que decirme amigo!»* Turning to John, he hugged him as well, as if they were old friends. “Mister Baker! I still can’t believe it! Too short a visit, too short! Hope you are going to find all that you are looking for,” with a wink he added, “and maybe your next novel is going to be set in South America, hey!” Jumping back in his truck, he waved at both men, turning quickly to go back to his life. “Adios, amigos!”

Sherlock, even if he loathed the idea of staying in the little town, sighed. “Better find a hotel for the night, we won’t be able to hit the road before tomorrow morning.” Not waiting for John, he walked in the direction of the town’s main road.  _ I seriously hope that this Cartagena story is linked to Moriarty’s operations in Colombia or it’s going to be a fucking waste of time. _

He chose not to admit to himself that it was the first time he gave any serious thought to his mission since the moment he met John.

* Yes, you’ve got a lot to tell me my friend!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> not a lot and really not perfect... My life nowadays! I need a Juan to get me out of trouble lol


	8. A fiesta!

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John and Sherlock stopped in a village before being able to head to Cartagena… 

Glowering, the hotelier gave them the key to a room, muttering under his breath about how unnatural they were. Rolling his eyes at the old man bigotry, the detective replied that they were  _ business _ partner and that it wasn’t their fault they had to share a room!

“What’s happening?” John asked as he managed to tear himself away from the animated people in the street to stand near Sherlock.

“Nothing,” Sherlock mumbled, “someone needs to learn that we are in the 20 th century…” Even if Colombian gay rights were among the best in South America, it was still often frowned upon. Especially in a small town. Without a word, he walked in the direction of the stairs. “Third floor.”

“I think there’s a party or something tonight,” John explained waving a hand toward the street in front of the building, “we’re lucky that we have been able to find rooms –“ Falling silent as Sherlock opened the door to their sole room, he quickly shook his head in denial. “No.”

“No, what?” Dropping his few possessions on the top of the chest of drawers, but keeping his phone with him, Sherlock entered the small bathroom to wash his face and hands. If he was able to forget about things like personal hygiene when he was in the midst of a chase or if it suited his persona, he preferred his usual cleanliness whenever it was possible. He was feeling filthy after driving so many hours on a sandy road.  _ Oh, it’s true!  _ Still scrubbing his hands, he called, “could you please give me back my clothes? Juan’s maid must have put them in the same pile as yours and –“ Curious at the other man’s silence, he turned off the water and walked back in the room where a still silent John was frozen in place. “Are you alright?” Without waiting for a reply, he extended his hand to take the doctor’s bag and repeated before opening the bag without asking. “The clothes I had when we arrived at Juan’s place has been cleaned and were probably folded with yours.” They were there, on top of the bag, still neatly folded. “Ah! Here we go!” Without looking at the envelope, he knew the contents anyway, he grabbed his clean clothes and went back in the bathroom for a shower.

As soon as the door closed, John dropped on the bed.  _ Only one bed. There’s only one bed.  _ Jumping quickly off of it, he chooses a small chair instead. The idea that he was going to have to sleep with in the same  _ small _ double bed as the detective was freaking him out! The souvenirs of the night before, when he woke up entangled with the tall man and sporting a spectacular hard-on was too fresh… and too troubling.  _ And what about this afternoon? Dreaming of him as if… as if…  _ Unable to find a reason why Holmes invaded his nightmare, angry at himself again for being unable to rein his thought, he flew outside without saying a word.

Fifteen minutes later, Sherlock was surprised and a bit annoyed by the doctor’s absence when he walked out of the bathroom. Being cramped for hours in a rocking truck did nothing good for the fresh sutures on his leg and he was due for a new dressing. A bit worried, he looked outside through the lace curtain, hoping to catch a glimpse of John. Difficult to find at first, many dozens of villagers and visitors were already gathered on the village place, the detective finally found him in a small phone booth.  _ Oh yes, calling for news about THE sister. He shouldn’t care that much, clearly not an advantage.  _ The idea that he did the same when he faked his death to safeguard the life of Ms Hudson, Lestrade and his parents foreign enough to not realize how hypocritical his reflection was. Pulling away from the sight of the agitated man with difficulty, he dropped his tall body on the bed and closed his eyes.  _ I need to think. _

He was surrounded by darkness when he finally emerged from his Mind Palace. Staring at his phone irritably – the thing was buzzing relentlessly- he picked it up.

“What?”

“Happy to hear that you are well,” Mycroft’s sarcastic tone was (not so unusually) lined by affection.

Straight to the point, the detective replied sharply as he checked that the frequency jammer was on, “of course, I am. Do you have the information I asked for?” Rising from the bed, he hopped to the window when he realised that he was still alone in the room and that the bathroom door was open.  _ He’s still outside? _

“The man is what he said. Doctor John H. Watson, ex-captain and surgeon of the Fifth Northumberland Fusiliers.” A small pause, the sound of his brother shuffled papers, a sigh, “yes, wounded in Afghanistan, not fit to be a surgeon anymore… PTSD, has a therapist, a waste of time in my opinion, now a… writer.” The disgust in the older Holmes voice rapidly turned into a mocking voice. “You know that  _ detective _ of his, he looks a bit like you.”

“Pfff… this is completely silly. I don’t know how he could know –“

“Gregory,” Mycroft stopped and correct himself, “I mean, DI Lestrade. He talked to him.”

“Gregory?” Chuckling, Sherlock smiled as he spotted John drinking a beer at one of the tables surrounding the place.  _ He didn’t leave me here.  _ “How strange that you are on a first name basis with a man I can’t be bothered to even remember his given name…”

“Brother, DI Lestrade and I are only mere acquaintances. After your… death… we met a few times. That’s all. Anyway, as long as all… this is not over, we can’t, I… I…” He cleared his voice. “Going back to  _ your _ doctor. One sibling, a sister, journalist of some sort. Her wife is a lawyer in a dire situation in Colombia, don’t understand why they didn’t ask for help from the embassy. The man in charge is a horrible bridge player but is competent after a fashion in his role. He only accepts a few bribes per year, not bad for a man in his position.”

“I heard that the situation is complicated, but my main concern is to know if it’s linked to my… project here.” Waiting for his brother to get on with what he called to say, he intently followed John’s silhouette as he is pulled in a farandole.  _ He is kind of relaxed, and a bit drunk probably.  _ His heart unexpectedly tightened as a young woman suddenly grabbed the doctor for a salsa.  _ He’s really not a real bad dancer, but she’s tedious. _

“ARE YOU LISTENING?”

“Yes, yes, sorry.”

“You asked for information but can’t be bothered to listen to me? I have other things to do, the PM is –“

“I’m sorry, My’, I am listening.”

“What’s going on, is that doctor of yours a menace? Do you need me to do something?”  _ I can erase his life, found something and destroy his reputation… _

“No, no, nothing. Just tell me if you found any link between them and him.” Mycroft silently cringed at the still reverent tone in his brother’s voice when he talked of Moriarty.

“Nothing formal, but the head of the gang consulted that  _ man _ a few years ago. Can’t say if it’s related to your… friend’s situation.” He waited, hoping for a reply, before he teased, “It’s not your way to be a saviour of a damsel in distress, can we expect a happy announcement soon?”

“Don’t be ridiculous, he’s just an ordinary man in a difficult situation. Tomorrow we are going to arrive at his destination, I’m going to investigate that group of criminals because they have a lot of power for simple traffickers... Especially if we know that the leader once talked to Moriarty. Then I will be on my way.”

“If you say so. I have to go, take care and let me know if you need something.”

“Of course. Thank you.” Closing the private line, Sherlock decided that he needed a drink. Not even looking at the available mini-bar, he stepped outside the room.

John was back at his table, nursing his beer, when Sherlock took the chair next to him. “May I?”

“You are already there… kind of too late to ask, no?” The doctor protested with a slight slur.

“I was being polite of course.” The detective smiled, raising his hand to called the waiter. “I’ve seen that you are already drinking your third… you don’t need a fourth?”

“How do –“ looking at his drink self-consciously, he murmured without protest, “yeah, ‘m good.”

“Bad news?” Sherlock asked after he ordered his mojito.

“How do –“ rolling his eyes at his companion’s knowing smile, John nodded, “okay, yes, you saw me in the phone booth, right?”

“Simple observation. That and the fact that you are drinking alone even if the lady that danced with you was clearly interested.”

“Wasn’t in the mood.” He remained silent for a moment. “They… they told me that it’s taking too long, that I, that I am clearly not interested in saving my sister… Didn’t believe me when I accused them of sending a killer to get me.” He sighed theatrically, the hiccup at the end killing all the drama, “don’t understand, everything is against me. And now, now, you… you…”

“What? Me?” The detective repeated, not understanding what his part in all this was. “I simply helped you when someone was shooting at you! Without me, you’d be dead and –“ The server placed his drink without paying attention to the two Englishmen, interrupting Sherlock’s rant.

“I know, sorry, and the fact that you knew Juan helped… sorry…”  _ Tomorrow, tomorrow I’m going to get to Cartagena and solve that terrible affair. _ He drank a bit more, before chuckling, “to think that a gang of drug dealers in the middle of South America loves my books…”  _ Fucking unbelievable. _

Smiling at John’s glee, the detective tasted his drink, “you are going to have a load of ideas for your next novel! Juan is quite a character!”

Forgetting his troubles, the alcohol clearly pushing away his inhibition, the doctor looked at Sherlock admiringly as if it was a completely different situation. As if the man of his dream was in front of him. “Tell me how you met Juan, I’m sure it’s a brilliant story!”

Always a sucker for an avid audience without realizing that the warmth in John’s eyes echoed the heat in his own, Sherlock leaned on the table and murmured deviously. “Oh… nearly 10 years ago I was in Florida where a new friend of mine, a delicious lady called Ms H. that used to be an exotic dancer, was under the spell of her husband who happened to be the leader of an important cartel…”

Hypnotised by the warmth of the baritone voice, surrounded by the music of the fiesta around them, John allowed himself to forget where he was for the moment.


	9. ... and a dance

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A few drinks later, John and Sherlock are going back to their room.

“Time to go to bed, I think.” Sherlock got up from his chair, pushing away nearly half of his second drink. The little place was cheerfully illuminated by fairy lights, but it was way past midnight. The party was still going on but the crowd was obviously younger than a few hours before.

John, adorably plastered if the detective was honest, motioned his fluttering hand in the direction of the table. “But you didn’t drink your moki –“, he tried again without much of a success, “mosi –“ enunciating slowly, one last time, he nearly got it. “Your mo-li-to.”

“I am not thirsty, come on… it’s late.”

Laughing as if it was the cutest joke he ever heard, the doctor pushed himself up with both hands, trying to get upright without waving too much. “People don’t drink ‘cause thirst, silly s’xy man, ‘re you fuckin’ real?”

Trying to keep him moving, Sherlock complied and riposted as it was probably expected. “Why do people drink then?”

“To forget things,” the smaller man mumbled, holding onto the other man a bit more than necessary before murmuring close to his ear, “to gather courage.”

Without acknowledging John nor the warmth pooling in his guts at his sudden proximity, the brunet pushed him softly in the direction of their hotel. “The party is ending, come on…”

Fifteen minutes later, the two flights of stairs a struggle for the inebriated and slightly handsy writer and the detective, Sherlock finally opened the door of their room and swiftly pushed John in the small en-suite. “Go freshen up a bit then bed for you. I want to leave early tomorrow.”

Not wanting to go to sleep right now, the detective opened the window to let the cooler air in the room. He watched as the couples below slowly dance a mix between salsa and more modern steps. The sight, in the low lights of the place and the deep beats of the music, was hot and erotic. Sherlock, a bit on edge since John started to act all…  _ weird _ , imagined the feeling of moving in unison with the other man. The height difference and his skills in dancing, years of dance lessons in his teens, making him the obvious leader. Closing his eyes, he thought about how close they would be. How easy it would be to simply press his lips to John’s head, how his longer arms meant that he could push the smaller man’s arse to press the compact body over his. Unable to control his action, he started to sway lightly, following the sensuous song. Lost in his sensation. Alone as the pair of them dance in his Mind Palace.

Quicker than expected, John walked out with somewhat more assured steps after a good teeth brushing, a tall glass of water and (better be safe than sorry) two Paracetamol. He stopped, looking silently at the tall man silhouette outlined by the window.  _ Oh God, he’s gorgeous.  _ Everything that Lestrade said about the detective came back to him instantly.  _ Brilliant; a good man, never believed his ‘functional psychopath’ bullshit; so beautiful it was nearly painful to watch for us mere mortals, a fucking GQ model; a genius, the best detective I will ever work with…  _ It went on and on, the three-hour interview the man gave to John following a chance meeting in a pub where the DI was drinking alone, destroyed by his friend’s death.

He was already curious by the case of the ‘fake detective’, sure that the story was deeper than what the newspaper printed at that time, but his conversation with the DI confirmed that he was right to have faith in Sherlock Holmes! Under the pretext of searching an interesting case for his first novel, then his second and third one, he accessed many closed files. Looking for the presence of Holmes, for the facts that proved his genius, for the information that wasn’t redacted. Falling for the unknown man more and more, curiosity turning to obsession and overall disgusted by the idea that one of the great minds of his generation was dead.  _ To think that Holmes is not dead, but here, in front of me. Here, alone with me in a room in a small village in the middle of South America. Moving to the rhythm of a Latin song. Looking as if he’s waiting for someone… _

Without being able to stop himself, he extended his arms and placed them on his back, stepping right behind him. Pressing his head on the man shoulder blade and muttered, “dance with me.”

“You are drunk and –“

“I am a bit sloshed, yeah, but I know what I am saying.” After a pause, where he slides his finger in the other man’s hand, he murmured again, “dance with me.”

“Wouldn’t you prefer to dance with that woman?” Sherlock tried to walk away even if he knew that he was childishly jealous but John suddenly pulled him back towards him; using his hold to twist the taller man right into his arms.

“Humph -” John protested as something hard poke his cock, before chuckling suggestively. “Is that a gun or you are just happy to see me.”

“A small gun, Juan gave it to me discreetly as he left us. It’s been in my pocket since then, you are not that observant for an ex-soldier turned writer.”

“Don’t tease me, the last few days have been rough.” Slowly, his talented fingers fished for the gun – not without caressing Sherlock thigh – before he placed the firearm carefully on the nightstand. Not letting a weapon distract him from the main event, the doctor went back to the previous subject. “The whole time, when I danced with that woman, I was thinking about you…” he cautiously dropped a first kiss on the exposed neck, praying for it to be welcomed. Swaying slowly, his pelvis against Sherlock’s body but careful to not put too much pressure, in case it was too much. “I flew from the room while you were in the shower because it was so –“, he suddenly stopped, his breath ragged and unable to be subtle anymore, “it was so hard being in that small space with you… knowing that you were just a few meters away… without –“

“Without?” Sherlock teased, knowing perfectly what the doctor was trying to say. It was all in front of him. Beside the still present haze from alcohol, his eyes were full of desire, the pulse elevated by emotions, a slight bulge showing in his relaxed fit trousers.  _ He wanted me yesterday, he still does. How long has it been since the last time someone wanted me? Someone that I am also strangely attracted to?  _ The memory of the night before –  _ Oh God, it’s been only one day! _ \-  __ when an inebriated John fell asleep in the small farmers’ cottage before anything actually happened, strangely similar.  _ Except that now, it doesn’t look as if he’s going to simply doze off on me. _

Trying to let go of his doubts to take advantage of the offer, he tried to think emotionlessly about the situation. _Why can’t I have a quick tumble with a man that I am not going to see again!_ _Isn’t this what us men are supposed to do all the time? What’s my problem? He’s clearly aroused, I am also... stirred, what’s wrong with me?_ The previous conversation with his brother, where he nearly compared the doctor to an obsessed fan, wasn’t helping! _Is this only a way to be near me, to get information from me, for a novel, for publicity, for -_

“Stop thinking,” John chuckled, peppering kissed all over Sherlock’s face, “you are thinking too much.”

“One of my better attributes, one may say,” the detective deflected, looking away, his eyes foggy.

“Not when someone is trying to snug you out of your mind…”

Quickly forgetting why he was protesting, Sherlock failed to recall anything as John assertively took possession of his lips.

Pulling his head after a few delicious minutes, the detective frowned, “I thought you wanted to dance?”

With a smile, John led the other man to the bed, and murmured “there is more than one way to dance…”

Sherlock was the first to wake up, an impolite ray of sun was coming from the still open window to end right into his eyes without touching John. Extending his arm over the body languorously molded to his, he took his phone to check the time.  _ Not even seven, still early. _ Closing his eyes, he sighed silently, taking in all that happened the night before and the weight and warmth of the body next to him. The naked beautiful man next to him. Unable to stop, he squeezed his muscles as to verify that everything was in its place, that he wasn’t dreaming. John, acting on instinct at Sherlock’s movement, sneaked himself even more snuggly against the tall detective. Hugging the man in return, he sighed.  _ That doesn’t help. _

He was about to fall back to sleep when the sound of a quiet knock on the door effectively woke him out of his reverie.

Without thinking, he jumped out of the bed silently and took the gun, pressing a finger on his lips to silence his bedfellow. Opening the door abruptly, while keeping on the side, he was surprised by the presence of a small teenage girl. Her eyes wide, she muttered something to the detective, trying to keep her gaze away from the (delicious) naked man. Cursing under his breath, Sherlock took a little fortune in pesos from the pile of cash he left on the dresser and thanked the girl before closing the door.

“What’s going on?” John asked as he patted the bed, satisfied that it wasn’t apparently a dangerous situation, “come back here, I dreamed all night long that you were giving me back the gift I bestowed you last evening…”

Cheeks suddenly pink at the recollection of one of the best blow jobs of his life and the idea that John was eager for him to do the same, he rushed to his clothes. “That woman, Mary, she’s in the village, looking around… There are only two inns, I don’t have to explain the situation.”

“Fuck,” suddenly fully awake, John swiftly took his things and was ready to go in a few minutes, while Sherlock looked outside without being seen. “What are we doing, we need a car!”

A small devious smile appeared on the detective’s lips. “I think I’ve got an idea.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Nothing spicy, I know, I am not a great smut writer sorry! Use your imagination ;-)
> 
> Busy as hell right now, sorry for the long delay and the shorter chapters (if you compare with my other fics.)


	10. What else could go wrong?

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock and John are on the final stretch to Cartagena. What can go wrong?

They’ve been waiting in the corridor outside of their room for ages, in fact only four dreadfully long minutes but it seemed longer, listening for any abnormal noise.

“Anytime, Sherlock, no rush.” John murmured; his exasperation barely veiled. Without saying a word, the detective finally moved and walked silently to the back door exit of their floor. Satisfied to finally be on the move, he followed the detective outside before jumping back inside as he felt the structure move slightly, something that you don’t like to feel when you are 15 meters high!  _ What the fuck!  _ Surveying the situation, he leaned down to check. The sun was already high, but the building on the other side of the small lane shaded them from the light. It was an old balcony, the metal stairs barely standing, the rail kept in place with few rusty screws. An inopportune flashback to a different decrepit building sprung into John’s mind.  _ Shit, that thing is staying up because of the amount of paint on it! And the fucking paint is peeling!  _ Extending a hand to halt Sherlock, he rolled his eyes as the tall man carelessly rushed down without waiting for him. Hesitating a moment, John finally controlled his fears and followed.  _ Who cares! I’m tired of being left behind! I am… I am a captain! _

Jumping some of the steps two of at the time, forgetting his lazy leg and aching shoulder, he suddenly felt tremendously alive. It was only three flights of stairs, but for the ex-soldier it was glorious. It was pushing away his fear, running with a fellow soldier on a mission, rushing to defeat the enemy’s plan. Mary the enemy, keeping Sherlock safe and saving Harry and Clara were his missions.

Exhilarating.

Like scales disappearing from his eyes after years of darkness.

It was death. It was life.

Sherlock stopped at the edge of the building, spying on the street, and extended a hand to stop John before pressing him to his side. “Shush.”

“I said nothing,” John protested in a whisper before being mesmerized by the true colour of Sherlock’s eyes. Long gone was the dull brown of his lenses, replaced by the luminescence of a galaxy.  _ Beautiful. Utterly beautiful. _

“Shush, I said.”

Shaking his head, John tried to calm his laboured breath.  _ God, give me patience! _

“Run!”

“What!”

“NOW!”

Without asking more questions, he ran, following Sherlock’s longer steps until he jumped into a car, barely waiting for John to fall into his seat before he hotwired the 4x4.

“What are you doing, I –“ Silenced by the heavy noise of the strong motor, the doctor – who was never a big fan of cars – clipped the belt as the car started moving. He was starting to get out of the ditch he shut himself into two years ago, but he wasn’t an idiot! Talking loudly to cover the noise, he asked “whose car is it?”

The detective quickly shifts the gear in reverse before turning to straight the car on the street. Laughing, he finally replied. “It’s  _ hers _ , of course!”

“Her? You mean that crazy woman!” Looking out the window, John was just in time to see a furious Mary running from the inn where they had just spent the night. “You are as crazy as she is!”  _ But it’s BRILLIANT! “ _ This is the most ridiculous thing that I have ever seen!”

“And you invaded Afghanistan!” Sherlock deadpanned.

Unable to stop himself, he laughed at the pure madness of everything that was happening. “In Afghanistan, I wasn’t bloody alone!”

Grinning, Sherlock drove out of the village. “I am not alone either.”

They drove silently for a few kilometres keeping off of national highways. “It’s not ideal,” Sherlock admitted, “but it’s the safest way to reach Cartagena.” The one laneway was surrounded by forest, making it easy to spot any car behind them.

“Are you afraid of her?”

“She is going to need to get a car first,” he chuckled, “or is going to steal one!” Checking his phone’s GPS, he nodded with satisfaction. “We’re going to be there in 4 hours max. We are only 350 kilometres away.”

“Great, great…” John muttered, uneasy.  _ What’s going to happen once we are there? Can he help me, is it possible for us to… to…  _ Even if a life without his own dark detective suddenly felt worthless, John couldn’ begin to think how something like this could ever work.  _ He’s officially dead, can I just, like, stay with him? Follow him in this mission, in this kind of unknown crusade?  _ His musing was interrupted by colourful swearing. “What’s going on? Not your style to –“

“She’s behind us,” speeding as fast as he could, Sherlock turned into a dirt road to get out of her line of sight. “We just need a bit of luck.” They both remained focussed as the detective drove expertly on the difficult path. “I hope this is going somewhere, LOOK AT THE MAP!”

Turning his head back to the front of the car, John grabbed the phone and quickly realised that the road wasn’t mapped. “We are on our own, the road doesn’t actually exist! But we are heading in the right direction still if I can trust the compass on that thing.”

“It becomes clearer, we are getting somewhere I think –“

“TURN!” John ordered as the road abruptly turned to the left to follow a river. “Careful!” The car finally stabilised its course on the dirt road with difficulty, the tiny gravel nearly as troublesome as ice. John was about to start breathing again when a small jeep rushed out of the forest. “SHERLOCK! She’s there!” The path wasn’t easy, and even with her aggressiveness, the small distance between them was comfortable enough to protect them. “Anyway,” he rationalized, “she can’t fire and drive at the same time! The road is terrible!”

_ Oh. No. There’s always something. _ Sherlock finally understood what his mind was screaming since they took the car.  _ Two coffee cups, the second seat a bit far away from the dash, a man coat on the back seat, a slight odour of cigarette.  _ “She’s not alone.”

“I thought you were a bloody genius! And it’s only now that you –“

John’s rant was interrupted by a volley of gunshots. The windows of the killer’s car thankfully bullet-proof, but the car itself wasn’t!

“Why are you going slower?” The doctor asked, confused as the car obviously slowed down. 

“They pierced the tank.” In one last attempt to protect themselves, he suddenly made a 90 degree turn to angle the car mere minutes before the gas went out. “Put the letter and your passport in your pocket and get out on my side, the car is going to shield us a bit.”

Mary slowly parked “her” car at the edge of the road and, with her associate holding a powerful rifle, she walked in the direction of Sherlock and John. “Hi, John! I could say  _ long time no see _ , but it’s been only 48 hours after all. Sorry that I missed you in that little hacienda yesterday.” The man beside her remained silent, looking at the detective attentively while holding his firearm steady. “You know what I want. The letter.”

The events of the last days started to pile-up, and John exploded! “This is ridiculous, why do you want that damn letter so much, just wait till I have my sister! I’m going to Cartagena; I’m trying to do what your lot want!”

Sherlock closed his eyes briefly and muttered under his breath, “it’s not the same gang, and call me William now.”  _ That man recognizes me. _

The doctor, tired of knowing almost nothing, turned in the direction of Sherlock without paying attention to the gun, “what? What do you mean they are not working with that gang!”

Laughing, the woman spat with disdain, “as if!”

Keeping his eyes on Sherlock while extending his arm in the woman's direction, John shouted, “shut-up! Your turn will follow soon! I’m tired of this shit!”

“I realized that I didn’t tell you everything, but it was obvious that it was two –“

Using his captain voice again, he interrupted Sherlock and murmured angrily, “not important at the moment. Do you have any idea how to come out of this alive?”

“Yes, four ideas if I –“

“Stop showing off. Do you have one  **good** way of keeping us alive.”

Mary’s companion, tired of the muttering, fired in the direction of Sherlock, his meticulous shooting barely grazing his arm. “Next time I’m going for the heart...” His eyes gazing into Sherlock’s, he smirked, clearly knowing who he was. “And after you are dead for real, you know what’s going to happen. You heard the lady, the LETTER.”

Without saying a word, Sherlock took his small gun and precisely shot the man in the head before pushing John down the small ravine until they both fell in the white water of the river’s rapids.

Coughing water, John finally surfaced, trying to locate Sherlock in the wild waters without being able to stay on place or turn to look around him. “YOU BASTARD!” Carried away, the doctor wasn’t able to spot the other man or to see if the woman was running after them with the rifle, “scream! Do something! I can’t see you!” The noise of many gunshots answered his first question.  _ No, no, no, don’t kill him! I hope the shot wound isn’t serious!  _ The vicious river tossed him for what seemed like kilometres and kilometres. Unable to use both arms to keep his head out of the water, his shoulder wound acting up like crazy, his will to survive was slowly slipping away. Until he heard it.

“JOHN!”

The voice, barely audible in the raucous of the river, was like a pint of ale at the end of a really bad day.  _ Thank God, he’s alive.  _ Finally, able to manoeuvre until he reached the edge of the river and got out of the mushy bank. Using a big rock to see further away, he scrutinized the river, looking for the man he was stupidly falling in love with. Cupping his hands, he screamed at the top of his lungs. “SHERLOOOOOCK!”

“I’M HERE!”

Looking in the river and around him without seeing the detective, he screamed again, “SHERLOCK! WHERE ARE YOU!”

“HERE, IN FRONT OF YOU!”

_ What. _ In front of him, on the south bank of the river, Sherlock was waving.  _ Alive. Thank God. _ Talking loudly to be heard, he stated the obvious. “You are on the wrong side, you idiot!” The tall man contrite smile was enough for John to forget his frustration. “Are you all right?”

“I think I ripped out your sutures, sorry.” Another smile. “Are YOU okay? Your shoulder, it looks like you are favouring your good arm again and -”

“Really not the time, love, what are we going to do.”

They both remained silent a few seconds at John casually dropping the ‘L’ word (because now is not the time to analyze feelings!) before Sherlock found his voice again. “Do you still have the letter?”

Fishing the inside pocket of his light vest, John found a mess of paper pulp, the letter completely unreadable.  _ Shit.  _ “My passport is a mess, but the plastic sleeve helped; the letter… the letter is destroyed.”

“John, I –“

“My sister is going to die because of me! I am such a failure…” John sat on the rock, the confidence that he had recently regained vanishing at the idea that he won’t be able to save Harry and Clara.

“John! JOHN! Listen to me!”

“What do you want from me, you see! I am just a –“

“You don’t need the letter; I know what they are looking for!”

John raised angrily at the little edge of pride in Sherlock’s tone. “What have you done?”

Holding his hands in front of him as to say ‘sorry’, the tall man objected, “you must realize now that, if I weren’t a curious man, you’d be in –“

“WHAT HAVE YOU DONE?”

“I may… I may have read the letter. That first night you know, you were sleeping and –“

“You opened my bag and read my sister's letter! How dare you!”

Standing tall in his drench clothes, Sherlock protested again, “you must admit that right now, it’s the best chance you have to save your sister.”

After a spectacular roll of his eyes – that even Sherlock was able to appreciate from afar – the doctor let his breath out slowly. “Okay, let's say that we keep the discussion about privacy for another moment, what can we do? We are on different sides of the river and we are not going in that death trap again.”

“We walk on the edge until we find a bridge and –“ the detective stopped talking as he saw a glimpse of Mary walking in the woods. Quickly, he shouted at John “You are on the north bank, 200 kilometres away from Cartagena. Follow the river until you find a road going north. I’m going to join you at the hotel as soon as I can. The Palace Casa.” At John’s astonished face, he pointed towards the woods. “She’s here, she must think that you are dead! GO! GO!”

He waited until an uncertain John started walking before calling, voluntarily looking like a mad man, “JOHN! WHERE ARE YOU, JOHHHHHN!”

Right on cue, Mary stepped out of the forest, aiming at Sherlock. “You lost someone, Mister Holmes?” 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Finally, John is back to being a soldier! I'm sure that, in another circumstance, Sherlock is going to love his captain voice ;-)


	11. The Pearl

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A conversation with a killer.

“So, Holmes, you lost your little friend?” Sherlock remained silent, unsure of what Mary - if it’s her real name - really knew. “It’s strange, you usually work solo from what I heard.” She tilted her head a bit, looking at the detective as if he was a curiosity and murmured, barely audible against the sound of the river and the nearby forest, “I can see the appeal, you are quite beautiful you know and of a superior mind if I believed the rumours.” She chuckled, as if all this was but a good joke, shifting her firearm from one hand to the other while keeping her aim directed on Sherlock. “Your little gun, throw it on the ground.” She waited until the man complied, and smiled, “relax. I have nothing against you, really, you know. But poor Moran loathed you! The idea that the man from whom he desired the attention so so much was giving it to you. That he was willing to risk everything just for a game of who’s the cleverest. That he died just to get the last word, without even thinking about him.” The quotation marks around the words, as well as her sarcastic tone, showed her disdain upon her (now dead) partner. “Lucky me, he was able to talk to me before he passed away. ‘It’s Holmes, kill that bastard,’ he said.”

Sherlock kept his eyes on the river, as if he was still looking for John when he knew that he was hopefully rushing away from her.

She laughed out loud, once more acting as if the situation wasn’t explosive. “He’s dead, with his lame arm and leg, it’s a sure thing. He wasn’t like you, he wasn’t a fighter.” She continued with disgust, “not realising that he was on the wrong bus, to think that he used to be a soldier, it’s a shame. A waste of space.” Her eyes lightened as she spotted a sudden rigidity in Sherlock’s stance. “Ah! You really liked your pet, this is sweet… True that you can grow attached to them.”

His anger – she was insulting his ‘dead’ friend after all – finally gave him the chance to interact without spoiling anything. “Shut up. Just kill me already if you are going to do Moran’s bidding. Is it what you are, after all, a hired gun who follows orders.”

She protested proudly, “know that I am my own boss, I am nobody’s servant. Now, this little chat is over, you are going to tell me everything that you know.”

“About what?” Sherlock replied, faking exasperation, “what are you talking about?”

“Don’t try to get out of it, Holmes, it won’t work. The letter, what’s in the LETTER?” Her impatience was starting to show with the heat as well as Sherlock’s unhelpful attitude! “THE LETTER, I SAID!”

Acting coldly, he walked toward her. “You are not allowed to scream at me, miss whoever you are. I was minding my own business, trying to get from point A to point B, when you started shooting at me and that man. Because of you, I lost my jeep and my bag. Because of you, we ran away and he realized who I am.” He laughed sarcastically, “thank you very much for that, by the way. Just a reminder, I am supposed to be DEAD…” Shaking his head as if the whole adventure was only a minor nuisance, he explained benevolently. “We befriended each other because I learned that he wrote novels based a bit on my cases… I was flattered. Nothing more. He needed to go to Cartagena for whatever reason, I need to be in Barranquilla, so we travelled together. That’s all.”

Mary, a bit crazy but not THAT stupid, stepped back a few paces away from the tall man. “Why? Why keeping him around if it isn’t for the Pearl?”

_ What Pearl, what is she talking about?  _ “A pearl? He didn’t say anything about a pearl necklace.”

“Not a necklace, idiot, but the Pearl of –“ she stopped before saying too much, “stop it! put your hands in the air.”

“We aren’t in a bad movie,” he smirked. “Don’t be so _cliché_.” Eyes fluttering, he virtually rushed through his Mind Palace looking for something about a pearl. _The most famous pearls… One of them must be the solution! The Abernathy Pearl? No, it’s still safely in the hand of the owner. La Peregrina? No. The Big Pink Pearl? No, it’s still in the possession of that crazy diver. The Pearl of Borgias? Oh. Ooooh._ The painting of the famous Lucrèce Borgia adorning the enormous pearl appeared in front of his eyes. _Yes. It was declared lost at her death. The rumours said that she gave it to one of Cortez’s men to offer it as a tribute to the Aztec king. A way to place Naples in the region, to forge an alliance with them in exchange for gold._ _One man with a priceless pearl, alone in the middle of a small army. Using the Spanish Conquistador as a tool, far less expensive than sending Napolitano ships to the New World. That woman was brilliant. But the Pearl never reached its destination._

The story was now clear for him, the lost Pearl of the Borgias – priceless economically and historically – found by accident by a student.  _ First proud of his discovery, he probably quickly found that the artefact was coveted by criminals. All sites are under the supervision of a local gang. Professional smugglers, unable to see the pearl only for its historical value.  _ **** _ And that poor young student, Clara’s client, stumbles on the most iconic jewel just like that and decided to play the Young Indiana Jones?  _ His thoughts flew to John, the doctor talked about Indiana Jones at some point when they walked the day before, astonished that Sherlock never saw any of the movies.  _ Maybe one day we could watch – _

“Hey! Dreamy boy!” Mary interrupted. “Stay with me. You are not in London, no one to help you here. You don’t realize that your only value now is the content of that letter?”

Rolling his eyes, he repeated, “I don’t have any letter –“

“I know your reputation; you don’t need to have the letter in hand to know something.” She cocked her gun. “You have only two choices. You tell me what you know, or I am killing you. I don’t need you alive to get the bounty on your head.”

“Bounty? Who’s going to pay you for the body of a dead man. And what, walked back while pulling my body where you left your car?” The detective chuckled and looked at the small woman, “kilometres away, carrying my dead body. As if.”

“I am not stupid, I followed the river course with my car, the road is only a few hundred meters away.”

Suddenly, Sherlock used a foot to fling the volatile earth where they stand in Mary’s eyes, the small momentum enough to give him the second to slide on the grown and kick the woman legs. Satisfied by the scream she let go when her kneecap dislocated, he swiftly grabbed her gun – far more superior to his small one – and looked at her. “Thank you for where to find your car. You are right, you know, your only value is the things you know.”

And he fired.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A small small chapter I know... 3 chapters to go!


	12. Cartagena

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John is finally able to get to the hotel where his sister’s kidnapper is.

_ Finally _ , John sighed as the bus entered Cartagena. At first sight, the small city was everything a seaside resort is: view on the ocean, whitewashed building, tropical trees…  _ To think that I am here for a rescue mission. _ He chuckled silently, shaking his head in dismay.  _ The question is, who’s going to save me!  _ The bus he was riding in stopped at a busy corner street.

“Here you go, the hotel is just a few blocks away, right in front of the port.” John’s saviour announced with his heavy French accent.

Smiling, the doctor shook hands with the tour guide. “Thank you so much Michel, hard to imagine what would have happened without you guys!”

An old lady in the first row smiled adoringly, “oh, you are such a nice young man, it was our pleasure.” She turned towards the rest of the group, composed mostly of women in their seventies and asked with a twinkle in her eyes. “N’est-ce pas mesdames? Quel plaisir d’avoir ce jeune homme avec nous pour quelques heures!”

Her friends started cooing as many comments echoed in the small bus. “Quel bel homme!” “Ah si j’avais 40 ans de moins!” “Tout le portrait de mon mari quand il était jeune! » « Quel beau petit derrière, je suis jalouse de sa femme! » « Est-ce que quelqu’un a appris s’il était célibataire… parce franchement il est très mignon pour un anglais! »

Smiling, he was unable to understand, as his knowledge of French ended at the remnant of the French lesson when he was in Secondary school, but the doting beams were universal. The doctor asked Michel with a grin. “Do I really want to know or…”

Laughing, the young guide summarized by “let us say that most of them are sad that they are far too old to have a chance with you, yes?”

John used his best impersonation of a suave Alain Denon and replied in a poor but enthusiastic French, “mesdames, le plaisir aurait été mien!” before leaving the bus with a wink and a last wave of the hand.

Looking around him he easily spotted the hotel where he was supposed to meet his sister and Clara’s kidnapper. Feeling somewhat more courageous knowing that Sherlock said that he was going to find a way to reach them, he soldiered on and walked in the direction of the Palace Casa.  _ I am able to do this!  _ The shift in his mindset over the last few days was remarkable, but he didn’t ponder on the fact that the cause was a beautiful tall man instead of his well-paid therapist…  _ Harry, I am coming! _

Standing in front of the check-in desk, John rang the bell to get the attention of what was apparently the sole employee at that time of the day. “Hi… uh… Buenos dias… El signor Wats-” he was promptly interrupted by the desk clerk.

“Yes, yes, Doctor Watson, they are waiting for you in our best room.” Not looking at John, who clearly had seen better days, he walked him until he reached the door of the suite.

“Senor, Doctor Watson ha llegado.” Closing the door quickly, the poor man rushed back to the safety of the first floor.

The room was posh, far more than would be expected from the outside of the hotel. Four men were playing cards in a corner while two others – dressed smartly – chatted on the balcony. As soon as the door closed, two of the card players jumped near John and checked him thoroughly, looking for guns or knives probably. When it was obvious that he wasn’t an immediate threat, they pushed him towards the men outside, clearly their superiors. Unable to understand the words they exchange, John waited, barely able to step into his usual military stance.

“Doctor Watson, finally!” a man said with a falsely jolly smile. John recognized him instantly, as the owner of the voice of the man who called him about Harry and Clara.

“Where are they? Are they safe? If you touch them I –“

Laughing, the tall man looked at his associate, “so fearful! As if you were able to do something to save them.” He poured himself a drink, turning his back on the doctor. “My  _ hombres _ said that they didn’t find the letter on you. It was the condition, no letter, no  _ senoritas _ !” John found himself suddenly restrained by the goons, unable to do anything as they tied him up to a solid chair. Dragging a chair closer, he sat in front of his prisoner. “I don’t know, what do you think guys, maybe it’s… how do you say that? British Humour?”

“Where are they?” John shouted before one of the goons slapped him with force.

“Silence! If you want to see your sister, Doctor Watson, the only thing you have to do is ask politely.” Chasing a piece of lint on his immaculate trousers, he sipped at his drink slowly. 

Waiting.

Breathing slowly to stay calm, John had to wait a few minutes before he was able to murmur, “can you bring me to my sister…. please.” His voice, lower than usual, broke on the last word.

“Louder.”

“Could you bring me to my sister... please.”

Satisfied by his captive’s tone, it was not perfect but better even with the barely veiled anger under it, the criminal snapped his fingers. “Bring her here.” A few minutes later a gagged (but still screaming!) Harry entered the room, heavily restrained by two broad-shouldered men. “Ha… Here you go, so you see doctor that your  _ dear _ sister is alive and thriving.”

“I want to talk to her –“

“Never enough,” the criminal sighed, interrupting John, “they always want more.” Walking behind Harry, he murmured something in her ear before removing the gag. “Remember what I said, senora.”

“Yes, yes…” Harry replied, suddenly more subdued after the threats of killing Clara and John if she didn’t comply. “Johnny, did they hurt you?”

“No, no, they didn’t touch me.”  _ Yet. _ “Are you okay? Did they treat you well? Do you have news about Clara?”

At the name of her wife, Harry’s lips started to shake, “not really, they said that she’s still in her hotel under their discreet surveillance and that they are going to harm her if… if I do not give them the document that was in the letter.” Her head fell, tears escaping the corner of her eyes, “do you have that damn paper, John, tell me that it’s all over.”

“I.. I..” he stumbled, unable to find the words that would destroy his sister only hope. “I don’t have it Harry, a… a madwoman chased… chased me… and… and I had to jump in a river. A killer, you sent a killer on me!” He mustered the most apologizing look he was able to do, knowing perfectly well that it wasn’t enough. “When I was finally able to get out of the water, it was turned to mush, unreadable.”

“JOHN! You had one fucking thing to do! HOW COULD YOU!” Unable to stand, she dropped to the floor in tears.

Looking with disgust at the sobbing woman, the leader waited until she was out of the room before turning toward the brother. “But you certainly opened the envelope at least once, no?”

“No! I didn’t, believe me… I’m telling the truth.”

“This is what we are going to know now.” Stepping back, he left the place around John to his guards.

One hour later, he was seriously thinking that the small brain he had since he came back from Afghanistan has been utterly destroyed by his encounter with the detective.  _ I am so fucking stupid, coming here just like that! Days late, without the bloody letter! Without a gun! Hoping for what? For them to simply give me back Harry and Clara? The only two token they have to get to whatever they are looking for? _

The pain was horrible, not as bad as when he was shot but a close second. But the idea of how he had failed both women in the last days was worse than anything they had done to him! The beating had been nonstop since Harry had been taken from the room, without interruption unless one of the guards needed a break for the loo or a drink. The hotel staff, probably used to the screams, was doing their jobs without a comment. Someone just entered the room as if all of this was normal to bring a tray laden with food that smelled delicious.  _ I am so hungry, I ate so little last night, it’s been ages! _

“This is tiring.”  _ And clearly not working.  _ The boss, looking at the blood on the floor, was clearly infuriated by the still uncooperative man. “And that story about how we sent a woman on you,“ he twisted to look at his men. “Can you believe it, me, sending a woman to do a man’s job?” An array of laughter and lewd jokes in Spanish resonated in the suite. “You see, we will never be that stupid. Believe me,  _ medico _ , if we wanted you dead, you –“

“Me permitió interrumpir ese discurso edificante de masculinidad insegura, » a cold feminine voice protested. « Pistolas en el piso y manos en el aire. »** The woman was beautiful in an icy way, looking regal even in her maid outfit. “Are you okay, Doctor Watson.”

“Yes, who -” he spit out a bit of blood, wincing, “who are you?”

“A friend, got the feeling that we are going to meet often from now on, doctor.” With a smile, she shot the criminals one after the other without hesitation. In 15 seconds, it was over.

The door opened to a frantic Clara and Harriet. “John, Oh My God, you are all right…” Holding her wife’s hand as if she was afraid of losing her, she kneeled in front of her brother, looking at his numerous wounds in despair. “I’ve been horrible, I am so sorry, I heard when… I heard everything. Poor Johnny.”

“T’s’okay…” he mumbled, not understanding what was going on. A man dressed as special-ops who came in with the women carefully cut his bonds before checking for any broken bones.

“Do you think you can walk, Doctor Watson, I think it’s best that we leave as soon as possible.”

“Yeah, I think but-“

“The cars are waiting; we have everything to patch you up at the base. Come on.”

Without protesting, John walked slowly assisted by the unknown man and his sister who was unable to stop rambling happily.

“Someone came an hour ago to the prison to get Clara’s client out, everything is now solved. He’s with his parents, they are in a flight in the direction of London as we speak probably.”

Clara giggled in relief, at peace for the first time in weeks, “first class, with the apologies of the Colombian government.”

_ Sherlock, it can only be Sherlock.  _ Hope raised in his heart at the idea that the man hadn’t abandoned him and was able to reach Cartagena in time to organise everything.  _ A few hours faster would have been nice but thank God for the bastard. _

Two black cars waited in front of the hotel, the woman who posed as a maid motioned Clara and Harry toward one of the cars. “Don’t worry, Ms Watson, your brother is going in the other car to get checked-out by our physician.”

“Where are we going?” Clara asked, suspicious.

“We are going to a chic hotel near the airport for a bit of pampering while your brother's wounds are cleaned. I could go for a change of clothes and a manicure myself,” she said with a small smile.

John, still helped by the man, protested as the chauffeur of the other car opened the door. “Why can’t we go with them?”

“Please join me, doctor Watson, don’t worry about your sister.” The voice, coming from inside the car, was authorative but kind.

Once he was sitting in the posh car, his dream of seeing Sherlock disappeared.  _ He isn’t there, where is he? Can I trust this man with Sherlock’s secret?  _

The man in front of him, his saviour was now in the front seat, was a forty-something businessman. His three-piece suit totally out of place on a sunny and hot day, thankfully for him the A/C was full on. He was English, but otherwise totally unknown to John.

“I know that our intervention, if welcomed, was a bit… unorthodox. I guess that you have some questions.”

“Yes. Where are we going? What’s going on, who the Hell are you?”

With a smirk, Mycroft knocked on the partition and the car left for a discreet surgery where the good doctor was going to be taken care of before being sent back to London with his sister and her wife.  _ A feisty one, this is going to be fun, Sherlock chose wisely after all. _

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ** Anthea said: Allowed me to interrupt that edifying discourse of unsecured masculinity. (and later) Put your hands in the air!
> 
> Only one chapter to go probably! Let me know what you think of Mycroft intervention and BAMF!Anthea :-)


	13. Cartagena (part 2) & Epilogue

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> What about Sherlock?

Running away from her corpse that he left there to rot, he easily found Mary’s car. The key wasn’t in the ignition but as she stole it after Sherlock stole hers, it wasn’t a problem. Quickly, he checked on his phone his exact position. Fortunately, the nearly indestructible device was still working, even after being submerged in water. The extended battery was starting to go down though, looking around in the car he found a charging cord in the glove compartment. Looking at the map, he was satisfied that they weren’t too far away.  _ Great, we went in the good direction, my estimation was right, we are only 200 kilometres away from Cartagena.  _ The idea of letting everything go, to leave John alone to deal with what is going on and just follow his original route was there. In the back of his head.

Next to his guilt.

_ Why did he lose that damn letter! _ With the document he could have fooled himself into believing that everything was going to end well for John and his sister. Rolling his eyes at his own folly, he hotwired the car and drove until he found a place to cross the river in hopes that he was able to catch up with the doctor.

One hour later he was finally on the other side, back on the main road to Cartagena. He was watching the road for a solitary blond man relentlessly.  _ Where is he? He was on foot with what, a 30 minutes head start? Maybe he found a ride or  _ – His thoughts stop when his phone rang.

“John?”

The polite voice of his brother echoed in the car, “don’t tell me that you gave that number to your… pal.”

“Mycroft! I am busy right now. What do you want?”

“I checked the story you told me about Doctor Watson’s sister and sister-in-law.” He waited a second, “and the misfortune of that poor young man, of course.”

Sherlock sighed silently.  _ The posh know-it-all, unable to go straight to the point!  _ “And…”

“And, if you are interested, know that I am here to correct the situation.” The disgust of being personally involved was obvious.

Unable to stop himself, he chuckled, “you… doing leg work! Why?” 

“Our ambassador wasn’t up to the task clearly, and we are talking about British citizens, and –“

“Sentiment. Come on, just say it.” The embarrassed tone of his brother was priceless.

Less than 50 kilometres away, Mycroft stretched his long frame, getting even more rigid. “No. It’s a political case, as I told you we are under the suspicion that the embassy is compromised. Anyway, Anthea is doing all the work, with one of my age-“ he stopped, “one of my... clerks.”

“So, you aren’t doing this because you think that John is becoming a friend of mine, that he’s becoming important for me for whatever reason.”

“Of course not.”

“Ah, everything is clear then, with the added benefit that I am not in your debt for your intervention, as it was only… for Queen and country.”

“Exactly,” Mycroft replied coldly, unhappy of being played by his younger brother. “We discreetly extracted the young man and her lawyer from the prison. Everyone, guards included, think that they are currently in a meeting room. The parents of the young man were… ecstatic.”

“And Harry Watson?”

“We are going to be ready to go inside the hotel where she’s held captive in 30 minutes.”

The detective breathed easily for the first time since the morning.  _ John is going to be okay; he does not need to go inside that hotel and risk his life. He does not need to depend on me to get that bloody pearl or to find a way to save them all. He’s safe. Safe.  _ Something rattled in the meander of his mind. “What? What did you just say?”

“Could you please pay attention for once? I was talking about your doctor; I just received a message that he’s been in the hotel for nearly one hour.”

“What!” Sherlock stayed in his line only by muscle memory. “GET THERE, GET HIM OUT!”

“They are going in at the moment, stay calm, brother mine.” After he saw Anthea, his agent as well as Clara goes inside, he continued, “everything is going to be fine, Sherlock, I promise.”

“You can’t promise shit, you fucking know nothing. He… maybe they tortured him… maybe he’s… maybe he’s dead. You know what can happen in one bloody hour!”

Mycroft, worrying because of the clear sign of hyperventilation and the slip in his brother’s language, murmured soothingly, “you deserve a friend or anything you want that man to be, brother. Life can’t be that cruel, I am certain that he’s going to be well –“ He paused as he received a communication. “The first extraction is a success; Harriet Watson is okay. They are going into the main room now.” He waited, looking at his phone, knowing that the moment was everything for his young brother. “Ah! They’re in, Doctor Watson is going to need a few stitches but he’s safe.”

“He… he’s okay.”

“Yes, it’s over brother mine, everyone is safe.”

Shaking, Sherlock pulled over to the side of the road. His deep sobs the only noise in the car.  _ Oh thank God, he’s safe, I didn’t compromise everything.  _ Many long minutes later, when he was finally able to control his feeling, he asked in a more neutral voice. “Where are you taking him?”

“He’s currently coming out of the hotel; I am going to take him to a surgery for a check-up…” After a pause, as if he was expecting Sherlock to protest, he added with a firm voice, “then directly to the airport where he’s going to take a plane with his sister and sister-in-law to go back to London.”

“But, I want to –“ The detective stopped, knowing that it was useless to try to see John. Why inflict his dark mood, his doubts, his feelings to a man who must be currently overjoyed to have his sister back after three days that must have been a nightmare for him.  _ What I want is unimportant, and my work is not over. _

Softly, even if it was killing him to know his brother's silent resignation, Mycroft asked, “what’s next?”

“Serbia.”

“Be careful, ask me if you need anything.”

“I will and… thanks… thank you for Doctor Watson.”

“I am going to take care of him, but you know that he’s going to ask about you.“

“I know, he mustn’t know where I am.”  _ Either it’s going to be nothing for him or he’s going to feel the obligation of helping me. Silence is better. _ “Your assistance is appreciated.”

“I love you, brother mine, don’t ever doubt it.”

“To the best of times, Mycroft.”

** Epilogue: Six months later **

“Where is he?” The detective was walking back in forth in his brother’s lair underground, feeling the eyes of a young Elizabeth II following him. “I asked around and he left his flat to stay with a friend.”  _ A friend, what does that mean? A FRIEND! _

Wanting to calm the younger man’s feelings of anxiety and trepidation, the older sibling chided, “Sherlock… six months, it’s a lot of time. People's lives change. I told him that you were coming back and… he moved out of his place to go live at a friend’s place.” The hesitation on the word ‘friend’ wasn’t lost to Sherlock, who was getting more and more nervous. Mycroft looked at his brother with a small smile, so happy to have him home again and that his vendetta against Moriarty’s web was over but horrified by the way his time in Serbia ended. His hands crushed the handle of his umbrella as he remembered the state of his brother when he finally found him. “Stop walking in circles, you are going to be sick!” Placing a hand on the perfectly tailored white shirt, he blocked his path and murmured. “How are you, really,” shaking his head sadly, he moved his hand to his shoulder, “you shouldn’t be up you know. It’s been only one week, the doctor said that –“

Shrugging his brother away, he turned away to check something on his phone and muttered, “I am only interested in one doctor.”

_ Good thing that the feeling is mutual then, it’s not nice of me but I needed to be sure. _ “Go home, go talk to Ms Hudson, she’s going to be… thrilled.” He smirked as he remembered how ‘well’ she reacted when he told her that her tenant was alive.

Chuckling, Sherlock was easily able to imagine the scene! “She should have knocked you with that cast-iron skillet! I am glad you were the one to tell her… instead of me!”

“It was certainly better that than having you to ‘appear’ in her kitchen, we don’t want to kill the dear old lady.”

“So, everything is ready in 221b?”

“Yes,” Mycroft chuckled silently, pleased with himself, “I think you’re going to find everything in good order. Just stay put for a week or two, I need to sort the last details.” Someone knocked at the door, it was Anthea. “Oh, my dear, perfectly on time as usual!”

“Yes, Anthea,” Sherlock deadpanned, thinking about the way he heard that she killed the criminals, “I heard that you are quite… on the dot.”

Giving back his coat to Sherlock, she remained unaffected by his insinuation. “I am only doing my job, Mister Holmes.”

“Which is?” Sherlock teased.

She winked, “doing what Mister Holmes asks, of course.”

An hour later, the detective was in a car in the direction of his beloved flat. At last. He was so tired and restless at the same time! The idea of seeing Ms Hudson, of being surrounded by his things, in his own bed was thrilling! Having to walk up the 17 steps, not so much. Knowing that he is not in shape enough at the moment to chase John – wherever the man is – and check what is the story about his ‘friend’. Closing his eyes a second, he swore to investigate tomorrow, first thing in the morning.

Wincing at the motion of the car stopping in front of his building, he quickly forgot his pain to relish the view.  _ Nothing changes, nearly three years and everything is the same.  _ The three steps leading to the black door, still shimmering with the few rays of sun coming through the clouds, have been freshly painted a deep terracotta. Speedy’s specials were the same, but the prices are now 10% higher.  _ This woman behind the coffee machine is new, I will need to investigate. The window treatment in my front room is still the same but placed in the way Ms Hudson likes it. She probably opened them to aerate.  _ His eyes methodically counted and analyzed each brick, each detail. Frowning, he realized that one window – right at the top of his flat – was opened. _ The light is on, who’s there? Isn’t that one of the rooms she used to rent to students before I arrived?  _ He was getting angry without knowing why when the sound of a man clearing his voice brought him back to reality.

“Mister Holmes, are you okay?”

“Yes, sorry, I am getting out.” He stepped out of the car still looking at the disobliging window as the driver opened the boot and removed his small bag. Turning back to Mycroft’s employee, he extended his hand for his bag. “It’s okay, Matthew, I am going to take care of it.” The reluctance of the man was obvious, his instructions were clear, so Sherlock smiled, “It’s really light… and I won’t say a thing to my brother.”

Laughing, the older man shook his head, “all right then Mister Holmes and, if I may, we are all really pleased that you are back. It wasn’t easy for… you know.”

“I know, thank you for everything, you’ve been really helpful in the last two weeks.”

Nodding silently, he walked back to the driver seat.

Now alone in front of his home, Sherlock's eyes fell back on the annoyingly lighted room.

Using his key, he entered the lobby silently, looking around him. Closing his eyes to smell everything. Ms Hudson lotion, her scones – a secret recipe that she claimed was inherited from her grandmother when he knew that it came from Women’s Daily, Earl Grey, bee wax, lemon cleaning product… It smelled like home. His mind was focussing on a mix of odours, secondary to the other ones, without being able to identify them when the shrill of a scream of joy resonated in the lobby.

“Sherlock! It’s you!” She grabbed him tightly in her arms, her eyes full of tears before pushing him away and smacked him hard. “How dare you do something like that!” Pressing him again to her heart she cried, “my poor heart, it’s nearly killed me you know! And your brother…” She hid her face in her hands, blushing at the way she treated him when he announced the news.

“Don’t worry, Hudders, he deserved everything… and more!”

Laughing softly, she kissed his cheek. “Are you okay now, he told me that… the last month wasn’t easy.”

“It’s okay now, I am back.” Longing for his bed, he looked up the stairs. “Is everything ready?”

“Yes, the sheets are freshly laundered, you’ve got some food, your things are waiting for you.”

“Perfect,” kissing his old friend back, he suggested, “I will come tomorrow for tea, is it okay?”

“Of course, whenever you want, you need to eat!” Thinking about the cookies and tartelettes she was going to make, she returned to her flat humming.

One step after the other, instead of his usual two at the time, Sherlock walked up the stairs and opened his door and his world tumbled over.

The first thing he saw was the unknown computer on the living-room table, a mug of tea next to it, the wool vest on his chair. Not on his chair per se, he always preferred the black Bauhaus one, but on the other chair.  _ What’s going on? He _ stepped further inside, noting that the shower was working, confirming the presence of someone else. Not allowing himself the right to hope, he silently checked what was on the computer screen. It was a story named ‘Romancing the Pearl’…  _ How? _ Smiling, he saw the printout of an article on the table about the mysterious donation of a pearl known as the ‘Pearl of the Borgias’ to the Uffizi Gallery. The secret patron asked only for one thing, that a Cambridge PhD student in archaeology would be considered as the donator of the priceless artefact.  _ That little detour to get the Pearl where it was hidden was a great pay off!  _ Sherlock grinned at the idea that John found the clue.  _ He understood! _

“Yes, really clever, but the next time you want to give me a sign of some sort, just text, right? Not an article in an Italian journal.”

Turning at the affectionate and emotional voice, Sherlock stood at a standstill at the sight in front of him. John was nearly naked, only wearing a bathrobe and boxers, his hair still damp from the shower. His voice laced with emotion, he murmured, “I will.”

“I am so sorry that I invaded your place like this, I couldn’t stay in my damn flat, so near but so far from you.” The doctor was slowly shifting from one leg to the other, clearly nervous. “I knew that you were alive, but I worried, all the time.”

“It was safer that way, I am so sorry.”

“I know… but it’s over for good now, yes? And you, you don’t mind that I am… here?”

“Yes, I am done and not a jewel would change that.” Stepping in front of John, he brushed his neck lovingly. “I missed you all the time. I even read your books… in four languages.”

“You genius.” John chuckled adoringly.

“The Italian version is okay, but the Norwegian is horrible, really. The way they described-”

His analysis was brusquely terminated by John’s kiss. After a satisfactory snog, he teased, “so, you know how the books ended…”

“Yes,” Sherlock chuckled, “the beautiful, sexy, dark, genius detective is always going home alone. I’ve got the feeling that the next one is going to end another way…” Pressing the doctor against him, he initiated another kiss, turning them in the direction of the bedroom, “and I seriously think that he needs a partner.”

Both laughing, they fell into the bed knowing that yes, the ‘Dark Detective’ is not alone anymore.

FIN

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As usual, thank you for reading and remember that kudos and comments are little gifts from the internet Gods!
> 
> Next: A little break from romcom adaptation as I'm going for a second part to my vamp!lock story (#7 How to lose a guy in 10 days: Vamp!Lock AU) Stay tuned!

**Author's Note:**

> Do not hesitate to write a comment, even if it's only to say 'Hi!' (I love to know what you are doing while reading my stuff, but keep it clean *wink*). 
> 
> If you have a bright idea for a romcom adaptation that isn't on my to-do list, let me know :-)


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